


Over the river and through the woods

by SheyRicci



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheyRicci/pseuds/SheyRicci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five hours from home; a straight, simple drive, right? It was supposed to be that simple. It should have been that simple. But Dean still wasn't feeling well, neither the traffic nor the weather were cooperative so Sam, tired of the constant delays, decided to get a room for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm baa-AA-cck!
> 
> This story can be read on its own, or for a better understanding of how Dean got his concussion, you might want to read, "Ow, that hurt"
> 
> Hot and humid here in Maryland, hope you're all enjoying your summer! Me, I'm eagerly anticipating the lovely, lovely, Fall!

The room was dark. It was always dark. Did he really expect anything else? He was so tired of opening his eyes and trying to make out objects and shapes in the dim light. Okay, sure there were no windows in the bunker but still, what? Power was out? They hadn't paid their electric bill? Did they even have an electric bill? Sam, the lazy prick, couldn't find a lantern or two?

Dean rolled over to his back and after a moment, when the room didn't spin, eased up to recline on his elbows. His memory wasn't good, was faulty and sporadic at best but experience had taught him to be cautious when waking to the unknown.  Okay then, so far, so good – woo hoot. Head off the mattress, room stationary, vision clear, nothing blurred – well, as well as he could see anyway. Okay, good, that was good. Next step, sit up – easy, slowly, careful, not too fast, you dummy – woo-wee! Yes! Success! Upright, palms flat on the mattress, either side of his hips, supporting his weight, but he was sitting up! Okay, good, still good, hell, it was great! Party-hearty!

"Fah-King Great!" he moaned pitifully, disgusted with himself for being so happy over such a small achievement.

Stomach where it belonged, head still and staying straight, no bobbing or listing to one side, eyes focused, no bile in his throat, room stationary, no objects floating or flying….now, all he had to do was stand up. Huh, did he want to try standing up? Eh, um, erhm, well...no, not really and why did he need to anyway? He didn't know, couldn't remember the reason - if there'd been a reason - so he didn't. Just like that, his hard-fought battle was forgotten and he plopped down onto his back, rolled to his side. He'd get up the next time he awoke. Maybe then it'd be daylight and he'd be able to see across the room to where he believed the door was.

"Cold." he stirred, hand flopping in search of a blanket. Yeah, the blankets were down by his feet and his hand grasped his pillow, the sheet beneath him and his own arm before he finally found the comforter and pulled it up to his shoulder. "N'all 'etter." he sighed contentedly, his cheek nuzzled against the pillow and he knew no more.

Sam, having bested his brother's impersonation of a flopping fish and guiding the comforter into his hand, quietly left the room.

The next time Dean woke up, he actually remembered waking up before, just had no idea how much time had passed. Hey, progress! Well, in his limited ability to retain memories anyway. He blinked, squinted, rubbed his eyes, huh, yeah, no, still dim. Okay, so maybe not that much time, then. Well shit. He took his time rolling over and sitting up – all was good. Oh, well no, not all. He needed to pee and…...he waggled his tongue with a grimace, nose wrinkling in distaste, sometime in the not too distant past, he'd swallowed swamp water.

No, he'd never tasted it before, but he had smelled it and hadn't it been proven that perceptions were altered – no – created by smell? Something like that. So, yeah, his dry tongue and slimy mouth were, no wait…aw fuck. It didn't matter - _this_ is what swamp water tasted like. _He knew it_! Moldy, mossy, dirty, fuzzy, slimy, brackish….no, no…..there wasn't salt in swamp water, was there? Sam would know, he knew everything about useless trivia. He paused, tongue hanging on his lower lip. Now, what made him think about Sam? He pulled his upper lip away from his gums with his thumb but the taste remained.

Shit. Right, the need to pee.

Turning slowly, he scooched his ass to the edge of the mattress and swung his feet to the floor but he didn't get up. No, he just sat there, dressed in a light blue V-neck t-shirt and boxer briefs, the sheet and blankets tangled across his lap. Eh, blue shirt? He looked down, squinted, pinched a fold of the offending fabric – _Sam's shirt_ – between his thumb and forefinger and plucked it away from his chest with another grimace of distaste. A sick feeling of dread curdled his belly and he used two fingers to lift the blanket and peek beneath. Aah, whew, yes indeed – and Thank God for it – his briefs were his own. Of course that begged the question, why was he wearing Sam's shirt?

Okay, yeah, sure. If he thought about it – and he didn't want to, and if he'd admit it – and he wouldn't _,_ he didn't remember much about the last couple of days. Or maybe it was a week. Might be longer, he didn't remember, didn't know, didn't care. He yawned, jaw cracking with a wince. Ouch. His hand rose without conscious thought to cup his chin and massage his jaw.

Sleep. All he'd been doing was sleep. Other than his body's demands he satisfied its basic needs and functions, he hadn't gotten out of bed, of that, he was sure. Well, pretty sure, maybe. Well, at least he didn't remember doing anything else. Fuck, he didn't know, he didn't know anything. Another yawn, a twinge from his bladder and he pushed the blankets from his lap. He remembered being at a sink and Sam had raised holy hell when he'd caught Dean holding a razor. He hadn't really meant to shave. He frowned, had he? No, he wasn't _that_ stupid, hell he hadn't been able to see straight, stop his hand from shaking or stabilize his image in the mirror. He'd just…..just…..just what? Thought it was a toothbrush, maybe? But no, oh no; Sam had been all atwitter, hands waving, arms flapping, tongue wagging, hair flying, head bouncing. Really, talk about your over-reaction.

"Aww….hell." he muttered, shaking the memory loose, what did it matter anyway? "The fuck?" there was a sudden litany of voices in his head: his scalp said, 'hey, dude, you forget what shampoo is'? His hair spoke up and said, 'itch me'. His hands said, 'sure'. His fingers said, 'be glad to'. His arms said, 'What a dumb ass. You think after a week of lying idle we can hold ourselves over your head while you take your time scratching'?

He frowned, biting on his bottom lip, a week? Yeah, a week, dumbass, how's your mouth taste? Another glass of swamp water anyone? "Shuddup."

"Hey."

He blinked, dropped his hands to lie across his lap and raised his head, bracing for the onslaught of piercing pain to slice across the back of his skull. Huh, some pain, but not knee-dropping. 'Course, there really wasn't any light. The curtains were pulled and no lamp was lit. Not in the bedroom anyway. Uh, bedroom?

"Dean?"

"So, you are here." he cleared his throat, but his voice remained husky. Where was 'here' anyway? Hey, maybe he was home. "Aw, fuck man….what'd I do?"

"You with it?"

"Hell, I dunno."

"The light bother you?" Sam opened the bathroom door and dull light spilled forth. "Hey, you with me?"

"Ow." a dull throb began behind both ears, but again, no stomach-churning pain. "Why am I wearing your shirt?"

Sam laughed, caught the glare-of-death cast his way, choked on a giggle and guwaffed. Sure, a week spent in darkness, a week without a shower or any food other than cheese and peanut butter crackers, dry toast and plain oatmeal, a week drinking coke and room-temperature water, a week without noise or light or activity or excess movement and Dean's first question was why he wasn't wearing his own shirt? Classic Dean.

"Cause you packed two and you ruined one and I had to cut the other one to get it off you."

"Huh." now that there statement required some pondering but, not now….later. "Couldn't buy more?" he frowned, rubbing his forehead as his headache blossomed. Oh-oh, oh no, here they come, taunting, humiliating memories; eating – _being fed_ – in bed, Castiel's bumbling attempts to offer comfort and - gulp - care, Sam wrestling him into this shirt. He frowned. Cas had been there? Or was it here? Wherever he was, he sure as hell wasn't home.

"Buying another shirt involved leaving you alone to go to the store." Sam replied, arms crossed over his chest, all nonchalant with his shoulder against the door frame. "And I wasn't willing to do that."

"Cas was here." it was a statement, not a question. It'd been a rough couple of days and Dean might not remember where they were but some things he did remember. Like Cas.

"You still had a shirt when he was."

"Aah." another statement to ponder.

"How you feeling?"

"Tired." he attempted to evict his tongue from his mouth. "Dirty." and failed.

"Yeah, well, expect so." Sam crossed one ankle over the other, got comfy. "Your body needed time to heal and now it's time for it to rest."

Aanndd….yet another statement needing pondering.

"Couple days?" Dean ventured.

"A week."

" _A week!_ The fuck? No way." but oh. Oh-woe, oh-woe-is-me, oh-no. Way and Memory, partners in crime, began a march! He gulped, and boy, were they ever marching fast and furiously; on fast-forward, skittering across his no-longer-befuddled mind in high-def, brilliant color. In. Full. Living. Detail.

A fucking mini-movie starring Sam.

Sam standing next to the bed, Sam hanging over the bed, Sam sprawled in a chair next to the bed, Sam sitting on the bed next to him, Sam – yeee-God– _sleeping_ on the bed next to him: Sam holding a cup, a bowl, something small, square and orange, a spoon, always nudging his teeth: Sam's hands pawing at him with a wet cloth, a towel, a blanket. Sam helping him sit up, get up, walk, stagger, off his knees: Sam hovering over his shoulder, standing with him in the bathroom, both verbally and physically protesting when he was shoved out of the room and the bathroom door slammed in his face: Sam looking like a kicked dog when Dean refused his help or shook off his hand: Sam asking him – no, _begging_ him – to drink, a straw between his fingers as he blathered on about dehydration and fluids: Sam talking softly, asking if he was comfy, if he was warm enough, was he cold, was the pillow cool and dry, did he want another one, did he need a blanket: Sam still talking softly, wanting Dean to tell him what year it was, who he was, who Dean was, what color his car was, who Bobby was, what state was the bunker in.

"Fuck me." he lowered his head, palms covering his face. "No way." he splayed his fingers on one hand and peeked out. Nope, Sam was still there. "Son-uva-bitch."

Instant replay rolled on.

Light made him nauseated, sitting up had made him nauseous, leading his stomach to rebellion. Sam, holding what was probably a trash can while Dean puked like Garth, who couldn't hold his liquor: Sam, holding his head when he didn't make the trash can: Sam, arms full of clean sheets, pushing Dean one way, rolling him the other, changing the bed: Sam, his hair blown seven ways to Sunday, unshaven with huge black circles under his eyes – that even in the dim light, were noticeable to the man with scrambled brains – slouched in the chair, tablet shielded in his lap to limit the light that escaped from the screen: Sam chewing on his lip, Sam wiping his eyes, Sam on the phone, then...Sam with washed and combed hair, clean-shaven but with bloodshot eyes talking face to face with Cas.

"No." Dean pushed to his feet, warded off Sam's offer of assistance and made his way the short distance across the room to the bathroom where he firmly shut the door, once again, in his brother's face. He hoped shutting the solid door would also shut the virtual one in his mind but he was sorely disappointed. Those f'ng memories followed him right into the bathroom and continued to flow: A+ for persistence.

Sam, patiently holding a white take-out cup while Dean took his time slurping a milkshake: Sam, talking nonsense, telling him stories, laughing over his confusion about Maggie – whoever the hell she was: Sam, threatening violence, culminating in the temporary loss of use of both arms, if he – Dean – ever set foot in the back poker room of a hick bar without Sam _ever_ again. Sam, explaining their next job as soon as Dean was of able-body and sound-mind, would be helping Cas to restore his lost grace, power and complete healing abilities.

"Aw, man." Dean sighed, reaching for his toothbrush but it wasn't there. "SAM! The hell's my toothbrush?"

Too late, he realized his mistake. He groaned in despair, kicking the wall under the vanity with his toe. Ow, dumbass, that hurt. He really needed to stop calling himself 'dumbass'. He didn't like it. Asking Sam a question, any question, would be taken as being granted permission to gain entrance to the bathroom. Dean looked at the knob, no lock. Of course not. Not that a flimsy interior door lock – or any lock – would keep out a determined, emotional 'little' brother.

"Right here." Sam beamed, happy now that he'd gained access to where he wanted to be; beside his brother. "Use this toothpaste. Need me to squeeze…..?"

"Saamm." Dean warned, snatching the newly unwrapped blue toothbrush from Sam's hand once the smart-ass stopped waving it all about. "Get out."

Sam bit back a frown. Waving the toothbrush around had been a test. A test Dean had failed. He'd grabbed for it repeatedly but hadn't once come close to touching it or Sam's hand. He brightened as his brain forced his thought process forward; once he'd held his hand still, Dean had had no problem taking the toothbrush from him. That was progress.

"Right, right, no, ok." Sam nodded, reaching around Dean to pick up a plastic cup from the vanity and remove the protective cellophane wrapper.

Dean glared at it, some distance memory tickling his picked-clean brain, something about, something…...he hadn't been able to open something. Something he'd wanted, too. Oh well, shrug it off and go on. He grunted, staring at the bare toothbrush in one hand, unopened tube of toothpaste in the other. Come on mind, catch up. You leave me standing here staring like I don't know what I'm holding and my teeth will be brushed for me: Don't. Do. That. To. Me.

"Here, just some mouthwash is all." Sam squeezed the top and opened the bottle of mouthwash – something Dean was pretty sure he had neither the strength nor the coordination to accomplish – and poured a splash into the plastic cup that he sat next to the sink. "You sure you got a handle on the toothpaste? Here, let me…."

"You can go now." Dean bit out.

"Yeah, okay, but." Sam hovered. "It's just…." pause. "This is the first time you've been up, you know, out of bed in days and….well, how you feeling?"

"Well enough to kick your ass you don't leave."

"Yeah?" Sam said hopefully, not moving. "Shall we try taking the towel off the light? See how you do?" he reached up.

That stumped Dean; he was currently stymied by a tube of toothpaste that didn't miraculously open upon his silent command and squirt the right amount of paste onto the toothbrush so he was quite sure he was in no condition to reason why towels were draped over the lights. Nevertheless, being Dean, he ignored the yelp of warning from Sam, lifted his head to look up, and promptly swayed. Arms came around his stomach from behind. Warm and strong, holding him steady when his knees shook, threatening to dump him to the floor.

"Maybe not." he muttered. "The fuck I'd do?" he dropped the toothbrush and held a palm to his forehead. "Shit, man. Ow!" his other hand splayed atop the vanity but the added support didn't stop him from shaking or his head from bobbing.

"Yeah, sorry." Sam said, wa-ayye to close to Dean's ear for comfort. "Should have warned you not to look directly into the light." he held tight despite Dean's half-hearted attempts to squirm free "You wanna sit?"

"Um." he shuffled one foot backwards. "Good…..idea." he gave up the fight and let his knees buckle. Had Sam not been holding him, he would have landed ass-heavy on the floor. But Sam _was_ there, his arms strong and he deposited Dean safely on the side of the tub.

"Hey." Sam wet a washcloth with cold water and when Dean didn't take the hand-out, refolded it and laid in across the back of Dean's neck who kept his head down. "Been over a week."

"What?"

"Since your concussion. You probably don't remember right now, but you had two blows to the head within a couple of days. It knocked you off your feet. I mean literally, it knocked you on your ass." he paused. "And when you're feeling better, that's a story you're going to tell me." his tone promised force would be used if necessary. "Really Dean? Some toothless, no-necked beer-back who's all belly and no brawn gets the best of you?" he waited but when Dean didn't bite, he went on. "So, anyway, Cas said there was nothing he could do. There was no injury to heal, just a concussion. I know, I know, doesn't make a lot of sense. A concussion is an injury but….." Sam spread his arms helplessly. "It's Cas. You figure him out."

"What?" yeah, he really wasn't up to following or holding a detailed conversation.

"So, not ready for direct light yet." Sam commented, putting toothpaste on the brush and handing it to Dean. "Progress though, got up on your own."

"Go away."

Sam hesitated then decided it would be wise to obey. Not because he feared Dean's ability to do him harm, but because he feared Dean would try to wrestle him and end up hurting himself. "You need me…..." another glare of doom and death and Sam back-pedaled to the door. "Need me or need anything, just thump something, okay?" he waited, half way out the door. "Dean? Come on, I'm not leaving until you agree."

"Yeah, sure…..go." he waited. Sam waited. Silence stretched. Finally Sam nodded and closed the door behind him with a soft snick. Once he was alone, Dean blew his breath out and pulled the cloth from his neck to wipe his face. Concussion wow. How? Who had hit him and with what? He poked all eight fingers, toothbrush clenched between his teeth, all over his head, searching for lumps and bumps or stitches, hell even a sore spot. Nothing. Well shit, if he'd had such a bad, god-awful concussion, shouldn't there be, you know, stitches or staples or adhesive, hell, at least a bandage? He dropped his arms, elbows resting on his thighs; Sam had said it'd been a week, hadn't he?

"Dean?" Sam called through the door, knuckles rat-a-tat-tatting softly. "You need me?"

"Bugger off!"

Where the hell were all those damn memories now? Let's see…okay…..there'd been a bar, a card game, oooooh, right, a fight, a bumbling Barney Fife, aah, let's see, Mrs. Barney Fife, a doctor….oh boy, more than one doctor – right, the hospital and Granma, aka Maggie. No wonder Sam was clinging like self-stick saran wrap. Well, not much he could do about anything right now. Trying to think, and forcing himself to remember, made his head _really_ throb and he wondered if Sam would let him have some aspirin. Like he should have to ask! But he knew without looking, he'd find no pain-relievers anywhere in the bathroom. Sam wouldn't leave them within easy reach; nope, not dear ole Sammy, the damn sensitive, over-protective pain in the ass.

Focus Dean, can't be too hard to come up with a way to coax some aspirin out of Jolly Green who's lost in the valley of wallow and sorrow.

Right, okay, so, in a nutshell, he didn't know where he was, how he'd gotten there, how long he'd been there or when he could leave. Yup, he sure was doing Grreeatt! Obviously he was going to be all right, or he'd be in the hospital; Sam would have seen to that. Aah, well, he was too tired to care about doing anything other than washing up and going back to bed. He thumbed his eyelids closed; a drummer was dancing to the beat of a different drum inside his skull. What was the harm in taking something for a slight headache? Slight? Yeah, right, you keep telling yourself that.

There! Dean nodded, satisfied with his conclusion, all was well. _He was well._ Well, he was if he ignored his head.

Oh. He paused, yeah, there was one problem – The Great Wall of Sam. Admitting to a headache would turn Sam all Florence Nightingale and Dean just didn't feel up to being an obedient patient. He shoved to his feet, held to the vanity with one hand and succeeded in a passable brushing of his teeth. Didn't matter, nothing mattered. Sam was in charge and like it or not, Dean had to accept it. He rinsed his mouth with water, then mouthwash; much better, no fuzzy teeth, no foul taste, no slick tongue, gums all tingly. Now…..he eyed the tub. He wore two articles of clothing…..how hard would it be to remove them and take a shower?

Um, hello, arms and legs talking here. No shower without us and we ain't helping; FYI big guy, not going to happen unless you want Sam's help. Dean shuddered. Shower with his brother? Not while he still drew breath. Okay, so new plan, a bath. Oooh, with bubbles, lots of bubbles and something to drink, wheedle some aspirin and he was good to go!

"SAM!" he called. "We got any bubbles?!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm playing fast and loose with the 'mark' and poor Cas and his, uh, abilities, or lack of them.

Sam was sprawled on the sofa, limbs akimbo, enjoying his first cold beer in over a week – wouldn't do to have alcohol on his breath should he, you know, have to rush his brother to the hospital. His head was propped up by pillows, a bowl of blueberries rested on his stomach, and a book was balanced on his knee. Mmmmmm, oh God, the beer tasted sooooooooooo good. Aah! His socked foot, dangling off the arm, swung in beat to the music playing from the commercial on TV. Finally, finally, he could take a breath and relax. Dean was awake, coherent, walking on his own, if a bit weak, and currently splashing happily in a tub full of bubbles made from liquid body wash. He'd even brushed his teeth!

…..And what a TV it was, a flat screen with hi-def cable.

Each day had been a trial but each day Dean had gotten better, shown improvement. He'd slept a little less often, stayed awake a little bit longer, talked more, gained coordination, was less confused and more cognizant every time he woke up. Still, Sam never wanted to go through another week like the one that had just passed. He couldn't – he wouldn't. It'd either kill him or land him in a psych ward wearing a straightjacket while he bounced his head off the rubber wall in his padded cell.

The stress, the anxiety, the not knowing, the waiting, the praying, the doubt, the anger, the loneliness, the uncertainty of leaving Dean alone with Cas while going to see both doctors who had treated Dean, one at the clinic, the other at the ER. The argument with the hospital staff that had gotten him escorted from the grounds by security only after they had threatened to call the police, the demand for answers, the constant battle with Dean over accepting help and on and on and on, etcetera and so forth.

…...Wow, this sofa was sooooo comfortable.

No, just no. Not again, never again. Soon as Dean was hale and hearty, fit as a fiddle, right as rain, and eating apples to keep the doctor away, they were **so** going on a balls-to-the-wall quest to retrieve Cas's grace and restore it to its former glory of full and complete power. What good was having an angel – a guardian angel at that – if he couldn't make Dean all better? Assurances that everything would be all right were empty and not at all comforting when your brother couldn't sit up or roll over or grasp your hand!

…...And the room had high-speed free wi-fi.

Although Sam still had no idea how Maggie and Dean had ended up in the hotel they were at, they'd remained for the past week in the suite Maggie had booked even though she'd left the day after Sam arrived. It was above their usual grade of accommodations but comfort and convenience overrode expense and affordability. With the bedroom being separated by a wall, if not a door, Sam had been able to watch TV, use the laptop and leave on a light bright enough from which he could read. The kitchen was also a blessing; a large 'fridge and a full-size stove as well as a microwave allowed Sam to buy groceries and eat decent meals in the suite. If nothing else, Dean hadn't been overly bothered by strong smells.

…...Plenty of soft, fluffy towels, a never-ending supply of hot water, both in the bathroom and in the kitchen sink, clean sheets, pens and pads of paper at the desk, dimmable lights, central a/c and heat, no crappy unit under the window. No sirree, not this suite. Yup, he sure could get used to staying in hotels like this.

Not wanting to leave Dean alone, Sam had only gone out when Cas had been able to remain at the hotel - and that had been once. He'd gone to the hospital then the grocery store. Now though, maybe he could safely leave Dean alone and go to a store that sold clothing, then a Laundromat. They were okay money wise, and if needed, Sam knew where to get more. There was Bobby's salvage yard and if he had to, he could call Jody for a loan.

Sam finished the beer and set the bottle on the floor. Come Tuesday, he'd take Dean back to the hospital for another CT Scan, where hopefully they'd be given the all-clear to load up and head for home. A five hour plus drive home across the state of Nebraska with Dean riding shotgun – he shuddered. Well, maybe Dean would sleep.

Ha, Sam snorted, yeah right. His fingers scraped the bowl and came up empty. Damn, the berries were gone and he was still hungry. Sighing, he sat up, listening for sounds from the bathroom that were proof he'd raised an elder brother as an idiot but he heard nothing; neither a grunt nor a groan, not a thump or a bump, no cursing, no yelping, no humming, no singing, not even the sounds of splashing. Not yet alarmed, Sam got to his feet, threw the bottle into the recycle can, set the bowl in the sink and paused outside the partially opened bathroom door.

"Dean? You fall asleep?"

"What's wrong with my eyes?!" came the response. "How come it's so dark? I can't see shit in here."

"We've been over this Dean." Sam said patiently. "You're in the tub, how much light do you need anyway?"

"My head hurts." aah, so now, in addition to complaining, he wanted something. "Need some aspirin."

 _Are you out of your frigging mind_? "No." Sam said firmly. _Uh, yeah, you dimwit, out of his mind is exactly what your brother is._ "You ready to get out?"

"Will you let me take something for my head?"

Sam frowned, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Dean rarely asked for anything. "Will you let me help you get out of the tub?" Sam countered.

"If I do, you'll let me have some aspirin?"

"Tylenol." Sam conceded reluctantly. Acetaminophen might not be good for the liver but it was better than aspirin for a head injury when bleeding remained a possibility.

"Okay." Dean agreed reluctantly. The way he saw it, letting Sam have his way was a small price to pay if it got him what he wanted. "Hey, how come there's a towel over the light in here?"

Sam rolled his eyes and ducked out of the room.

Once Dean was safely out of the tub, dried and dressed and back in bed, Tylenol swallowed, Sam cleaned up the mess his deliberately sloppy brother had made getting out of the tub, promised future retribution then pulled out the sofa-bed and laid down for a much deserved nap. Hell, what time was it anyway? Could be midnight and bedtime for all he knew. Didn't matter, Sam's body was demanding rest, his mind wanted sleep and he might was well succumb while Dean slept peacefully.

Today was the fifth day since Sam had arrived and the first that Dean had gotten up on his own. Oh sure, he'd crawled out of bed to seek the bathroom but he hadn't gotten up for any other reason and Sam had had to catch him, turn him around and guide to the bathroom more than once. Dean had mumbled about the bathroom moving, never being where it should be, that it hadn't been there last time, and when he came out, had to be caught, turned and guided back to the bed he'd just left. Each day, Sam had let in a little more light, turned up the radio a bit more, experimented with the flickering images on the TV and laptop. Each time, Dean tolerated a bit more than before. But it had been slow going. Agonizingly slow, with a time or two there being a step back. Sam had felt like crap every time he'd made Dean vomit or wince in misery or cover his head with his arms with a sound of pain.

Sam had read the hospital file until he'd memorized it and yet, he'd read it again and again, hoping, praying something would be different. Had searched diligently for any of the warning signs stipulated in the one document within the file that scared the crap out of him: Choking, gagging, trouble swallowing; failure to recognize Sam or cite his own name or the color and model of their car, things most familiar and dear to Dean; inability to grasp Sam's hand, inability to high-five or touch what body part Sam called out. He'd put Dean through various tests, including vision, reflexes and coordination; questioned him hourly, hounded him every time he got out of bed, scrutinized his movements, all but whipped out a ruler and measured his eyes, though now that he was able to think rationally, he had no idea what that would have proved.

He blew his breath out, rolled over and punched his pillow. His biggest fear had been Dean taking a turn for the worse, and Cas being either too far away or too weak to help. With his limited power, he couldn't bring back the dead. It'd been a hard decision; keeping Cas close by or letting him go but in the end, the need to restore his power and grace had been the priority Sam had agreed with.

He'd catch some sleep, and when he woke up, he'd take a shower, make a decent meal and return to his research both on the mark and Cas's grace.

***000***

"I'm hungry." Dean announced, joining Sam at the table where he plopped into a chair with no grace. "Make me something to eat."

"Soup? Scramble some eggs? I can make an omelet." Sam offered, collecting and closing the numerous books spread across the table. "You, uh….."

"Kind of soup?"

"Butternut squash, Cream of…" Dean's hand went up, the universal sign of, 'stop, right there'. "Chicken noodle." Sam ventured. Cream of anything and Dean were not on cordial terms. "How you doing?" he asked hesitatingly, waiting for the expected blow off. Prepared for the snark, the middle finger salute, to be made fun of, laughed at, put down and ridiculed. You know, the usual attitude and response from Dean whenever Sam offered to help him or do something for him.

"Chicken without rice?" he glanced around the suite, taking in the 'luxurious accommodations' with a smirk. "Where the hell are we?"

"What do you remember?" Sam asked after a moment, needing the time to recover from not receiving the expected reaction. Huh, okay, so no, Dean was not yet fully recovered from his concussion. Not if he were willing to sit at the table and allow Sam to make him something to eat.

"Nothing in any kind of order that makes sense."

Sam filled him in while he scrambled some eggs, made some toast and heated a can of chicken noodle soup. He puttered around the kitchen making the least amount of noise as possible but other than the occasional wince, Dean didn't seem bothered by the occasional clink or clang.

"The Impala's here though?" Dean asked. He hesitated then wearily picked up a fork, poked at the eggs and reached for the salt. "Ketchup?"

"Yeah, right outside." Sam found some take-out packets of mayonnaise, ketchup and hot sauce in a drawer and tossed them onto the table. He successfully kept a frown to a raised eyebrow, watching Dean hold the fork like it weighed five pounds. "Easy on the salt, dude."

Dean nodded. "All's good then." he set down the fork, fought with a package of ketchup, tried with his teeth then threw it at Sam. "Open this."

Yeah, see no, _all_ wasn't good. If Dean was _all_ better, he'd be demanding they leave, and go home or find a case but he wasn't. He was sitting quietly in a dim room eating ketchup-covered scrambled eggs with too much salt and Sam just didn't know what to make of that.

Dean didn't eat much but Sam didn't comment. He cleaned up while Dean finished drinking his orange juice without complaint; yeah, sure, nothing to worry about there – just another out-of-character action from Dean.

"We got anything going on?" Dean asked pulling the laptop around and lifting the top.

"You….Hey!" Sam yelped. "Don't do that!" he forced the lid down before Dean could clear the keyboard.

"What? Get your hands off it!" Dean swatted at his arm. "Geez, you researching a hunt?"

"No!" Sam picked the computer up and moved it over to the counter out of Dean's reach.

"What's going on Sam?" Dean's tone reflected a hint of anger. "You hiding something from me?"

"No, you dumbass." Sam retorted, emotions frayed. "I'm trying to protect you from being a drooling heap on the floor. You raise that screen and the page comes up bright and running a video, you'll be in a puddle of vomit."

Dean scowled, hot retort on his tongue but he remembered looking up at the light in the bathroom and held back the scathing comment. "Time is it? Hell, what day?"

"I don't think you're up to flickering screens yet." Sam said more gently. "Let's give it another day, okay?" he offered Dean a powered donut, his stomach doing a sick dance when the offer was rejected. "And it's Sunday, around noon."

"Whatever." Dean let it go. "When are we going home?"

"You have to go back to the doctor's on Tuesday, then we'll see."

"I have to what?" his ire pricked up again. "Since when do we do return visits to the hospital?"

"Since you were knocked stupid and got arrested. And oh, let's see, aah yeah, you shot a pillow – good shot by the way, though who the hell knows what you were actually aiming at – passed out in a parking lot, puked on my feet, cried like a little girl when the sun peeked through the window and hid under the blankets when the light was turned on and then…"

"Yeah, well, fuck you." Dean got up, held to the table until he gained his balance and turned in a circle, first to his right, then to his left. "No one asked you to come get me." finally deciding which direction his bed was, he let go of the table. Yeah, his grand departure would have gone so much better if he'd known where he was going and hadn't staggered like a drunken fool trying to get there. "Go buy me some shirts." he ordered grumpily. "I need clothes."

Maybe you didn't ask, Sam chortled silently, but Maggie sure did. "Hey." he followed Dean, hands stretched out to catch him should he fall. "How's your head feel? It hurt?" he didn't add that the last time Dean had gotten up, he'd complained of a headache and asked for aspirin. No sense giving him any ideas.

"Just a headache." he didn't ask for any aspirin and Sam didn't offer. "Go away."

Sam picked up the discarded pillows, fluffed and plumped them, then piled them by the headboard. "Go easy getting up next time." he advised. "You sit up too quickly and spin the room, your stomach will…"

"Sam?"

"Yeah, yeah, right, get out, go away, get lost, find something else to do, leave you alone, don't bother you, why am I still here, don't I have anything better to do, you don't need me, you don't want me around…..." he was still muttering, repeating every phrase Dean had apparently thrown at him over the last week or so, when he finally left the room.

"Finally, geesch." Dean lay on his back, hands folded and cupped under his head as he stared up at the ceiling. He wasn't about to admit it, but he was so weak from sitting at the table and walking back to bed that his leg muscles still shook and his right calf was cramped. He should be able to remember what all had happened, but he didn't. Trying only succeeded in leaving him frustrated and in pain. And sleep? Yeah, it wasn't coming anytime soon. Nope, not happening.

What the hell had happened at that damn bar?

Sam, still unsettled over Dean's recent behavior, scrapped further research and retreated to the sofa with a paperback western he'd picked up at a used book sale at some library or another. Mindless matter to occupy his thoughts was what he needed. On one hand, he was happy that Dean was finally showing signs of overcoming the worst of the concussion, but on the other hand, he was not looking forward to dealing with a recalcitrant Dean and forcing him to alter his behavior for the benefit of his own health.

Keeping Dean down was never easy. It took time and patience and manipulation, extensive and deep knowledge of knowing Dean, knowing how to coerce and guilt-trip him and even then, sometimes – hell, who was he kidding, most times – Dean did whatever the hell he wanted to anyway.

And on top of _all that,_ his brother's health and well-being and continued recovery – which so far had gone remarkably well – was at stake. And with growing alarm, the more information Sam unearthed and understood about the 'mark' made him progressively uneasy. And Dean's behavior? When riled, when angered, when denied his own way, Dean was impossible to reason with. The last couple of times Dean had 'marked' out on him, it'd taken everything Sam had to get through to his brother and even then, he'd needed help from Cas who had used his dwindling mojo to corral 'Dean, the destructive typhoon.'

Come on Tuesday, hurry up and get here. Hey, what say we make an agreement to just forget about Monday and skip right over the good-for-nothing day that's in my way? Sam sighed, backing up a page when he realized he'd turned it without reading any of the words it contained. Yeah, bargaining wouldn't get him anywhere, so how about a prayer; Oh God, who aren't in Heaven, puhl-leeees let me get him home!

***000***

The magazine Sam was listlessly thumbing through, not a word read, went topsy-turvy airborne when a nurse, happily chattering non-stop, pushed his brother down the hallway in a wheelchair – _a fucking wheelchair_! Alarmed, panic and hysteria warring for top billing, he strode forward to greet them.

"DEAN!" his arms were out, hands reaching to halt the forward progress of the chair by gripping either arm. The nurse, looking scared to death by the confrontation, squeaked when she hit the Sam-shaped immovable obstacle. "What the hell, Dean?" he peered intently into his brother's face, that while pale, didn't reflect any other signs of distress, discomfort or pain. "What happened?" he turned his fury on the nurse. "What did _you_ do to him?"

"Sam…Sammy….hey!" Dean gathered a handful of shirt and pulled his brother towards him, away from the nurse who shirked against the wall, hands still on the wheelchair handles. "Chill out dude."

"You're in a wheelchair, Dean. Why the hell are you in a wheelchair?" Sam demanded. "I didn't bring you in here in one, why are you leaving in one? You are leaving, aren't you?" he pinned the nurse with a look that had her back-stepping away. "He's leaving, right?"

"Sam, come on." Dean easily pushed out of the chair and used both hands and his own body weight to push Sam backwards. "CT is like, on the tenth floor or somewhere, it's a long walk."

"Where's the doctor? You know, I've had it with this back-wood, hick-town sorry excuse for a hospital." Sam seethed, the memory of his last experience with the staff still fresh in his mind. "I've been through this _here_ before." now that Dean was standing upright without aid, Sam was able to calm down. He also finally noticed the nurse was young, brunette, wore no ring on her finger and was easy on the eye. "Dean, did you….if you…. I swear….."

"The doc's coming right down." Dean flashed the nurse a smile. "All's good, he said I can leave to go home, just can't drive." he gave Sam his trade-mark smirk. "You done did good taking care of me. Okay? Come on, buy me a coke while we wait."

The doctor took his time arriving. By then Sam had worked himself into a wrinkled fit that nothing Dean said or did smoothed out. With feigned weakness, droopy eyelids, and a moan or two, he was able to keep Sam seated next to him, but even sitting shoulder-to-shoulder didn't stop Sam's knee from jouncing, keep his hands still or save his hair from repeated hand-shoveling. Man, how did the kid manage to make his hair stick out like straw escaping from a clothed scarecrow? Seriously, it stood out every which way all on its own!

Lips twitching, fighting a smug smirk, Dean reached out and attempted to pat Sam's hair into some kind of obedience. It fought back. Dean used both hands. Sam scowled. Dean took an ear in each hand and shook the head to which they were attached. The damnable hair laughed, it didn't fall flat. Dean poked, it poked back. When Dean tugged on one side, the other side went bloop, straight out.

"You spit on your palm and attempt to smooth my hair down, I will force you to your knees by your ear." Sam stated calmly.

Dean grinned and patted Sam on top of his head.

"Gentlemen." the doctor had approached without either brother being aware. "Mr. Singer, good day." he took a seat across from them and opened a file he carried in his hand. "So, then…."

The doctor droned on, Dean tuned him out. He was warm and his head had begun to ache. Oh boy, was it overly hot in the waiting room or what? His palms were sweaty and he felt the flush sting his cheeks. He used his shoulder to wipe his face, wouldn't do to break out in a full-blown sweat. No way Sam wouldn't notice that! His neck itched and he tried to remember if he'd used deodorant that morning.

He began to fidget. He tried not to.

Blah-blah….plenty of rest, plenty of fluids, restricted access to sun, light activity, light diet, no driving, no strenuous activity, no contact sports, no operating of heavy machinery, no climbing flights of stairs, no flying, no heights – as in, don't climb towers or ladders or trees or walk on roofs, duh – what, did he think Dean looked like a fireman? Blah-blah…...once he could touch his toes – eh? – it would be alright to advance on to light exercise, such as, a stationary bike, jogging or swimming, but not alone. Blah-blah….practice eye-to-hand coordination, play catch, or bounce a hard rubber ball off a wall and catch it with one hand, repeat, catch with the other hand….blah-blah….test motor skills, jump on one foot – if anyone thought he was going to play hopscotch, he'd show them with his right fist just how good his motor-skills were – jumping jacks, cut paper with a scissors on a straight line, tie his shoes, jigsaw puzzles...

Dean began a silent conversation. 'Oh now, wait a minute, hold on…Sam, do something! Why are you letting him go on and on about stupid shit? Wait, wait, what….what the fuck are you doing?! When I said do something, I didn't mean take out pen and paper and start taking notes! Ack!'

"Yeah, okay Doc, sure." Dean said testily when Sam, eager and willing to absorb everything the doctor was spewing, showed no signs of cutting the nonsense short. "Can I go home now?"

"Shush." Sam waved him silent, pen in hand, notepad balanced on his knee. "Don't interrupt."

"But I'm bored!" Dean huffed. "I don't wanna sit here and listen to him all day." he looked around. "Gimme some money, we passed a vending machine down the hall."

"No." Sam said. "Shut up."

"Gimme a dollar." he began to dig in Sam's pocket, knowing it would irritate the younger man. "Give it up. I want another coke, this one got warm."

"Stop." Sam nudged his hand away. "Can you behave? Please? Just stay put and be quiet."

"It's right there." Dean pointed down the hallway, withdrew a wad of bills from one of Sam's many pockets and counted out several singles. "Like, I dunno, five doors that way."

"Stay where I can see you."

Dean rolled his eyes and got to his feet. "Sure, I'll balance on one foot so I can keep the other in the hallway where you can see it. Won't be too dangerous, you know, for a man in my condition." he added dryly.

"You know Dean." Sam began. "Stop being an ass. You've put me through enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Have tea time with Doc but I'm ready to go."

"Five minutes."

"Yuh-huh."


	3. Chapter 3

Sam watched him walk away, one eye and an ear on the retreating figure, the other set on the doctor, who once Dean departed, continued with his lecture.

"I can't make him stay here, I can't force you to obey my instructions, but I can, and do, strongly insist that you somehow make him come to terms with reality."

Sam rubbed his forehead, choking on a curse when Dean put 'his right foot in and shook it all about'. He knew, without seeing that Dean was supported with both hands either on the wall or the vending machine. He clicked his pen and along with the notepad, stowed it in a pocket.

"Yeah, well, my whole life doc." Sam sighed. "Been doing that my whole life." and how's that going for you, Sam ole buddy? How successful have you been?

"He said you were brothers, do you work together? I met his partner when she brought him in."

Sam shook loose the rambling mental voice in his head and forced himself to focus. "Part…? Oh, Officer Mills." he nodded. "Aah, yeah, same line of work."

"I strongly suggest, he doesn't return to that line of work until he is able to perform the motor skills we discussed. It'll be a slow process but he will improve. A third blow to his head before he's fully recovered could render him critically injured. Call me in six weeks and I will forward his file to whatever hospital you take him to for a follow-up CT Scan."

That will never happen, Sam vowed silently, not as long as Cas is around. "He said we could head home?" Sam questioned. A hand appeared in the doorway, fingers pointed up, then down, the thumb waggled, the fingers made a V, then flipped him off before making the sign of love. Sam seethed; he was going to kill the damn fool. Slowly, with a lot of pain. He'd take pleasure inflicting it, too.

"He pushed until I reluctantly conceded." the doctor admitted. "As long as he didn't drive."

"So, you don't recommend it." yup, Sam sure was going to throttle his brother who was now headed back to him. Look at him all smug and full of smirk. His hands itched to smack that look right off his face. Course, hitting him with any force at all, might well knock him on his ass.

"Not until he can look at light without a wince or squinting. I suggest waiting another week."

Sam stood up but made no promises to the doctor. "Thanks doc." he held his hand out to shake hands. "I'll be in touch."

Dean tried to sip from the bottle of coke as he walked, steps slowing the closer he got to his brother, wishing for a straw. Tipping his head back made the immediate space within his vision swirl and dip. He rubbed the back of his hand along his forehead that was slick with sweat. Oh, that was not good. So not good. Not good at all. No way would Sam agree to load up the Impala and head for home if Dean was all pale and sweaty.

He wiped his hand on the ass of his jeans. Nah, he could hide it. Sam would never know, he could get anything past good ole gullible Sammy when he put his mind to it. All he needed was a minute to sit down. Maybe then he wouldn't have to tip his head back so far and he'd be able to drink enough soda to calm his stomach. Yeah, that was his plan and a good plan it was too.

"Dean?"

What the…..? Wasn't Sam ready to go? He was standing up, so why weren't they leaving? It was time to go. Dean wanted to leave, therefore - translation, Dean-to-English - it was time to go. Well, first he wanted to sit down for a moment, just until his head cleared and…..oh drat. Hands were reaching out, holding his sleeves, cupping his chin, touching his cheek, tipping is head up – don't do that Sam, I'll puke on your shoes – prying his eyelids wide, feeling his forehead. Damn, a roadblock.  A fucking Sam-shaped roadblock.  Oh yeah, he wasn't moving it.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked worriedly. "What did you do? We should go, let you lie down."

Figures, Sam was _finally_ ready to go and now all Dean wanted to do was _sit_ down before he _fell_ down. "Leave off." he growled, swatting at the arms holding him. But his swipes were ineffective and uncoordinated which apparently alerted Sam to the fact that something was indeed wrong.

"What the hell, Dean? You went for a fucking soda!" Sam exploded, pushing and pulling and prodding and Dean was off his feet and on his ass with no clear memory of how it'd happened and his hands were…..empty.

Hey, what'd happened to his soda? Where'd it go? "Lotsa light." he slurred thickly. "Yow-ow…ow, ow, ow."

Sam fumed.

"Dizzy…in the….head." Dean swallowed, mouth dry. "…and I feel…..bad."

Sam's fuming ratcheted up a notch.

Dean knew it did. Even with his eyes were closed, he knew Sam was fuming because he could hear him huffing and blowing his breath through his nose. Knew his lips were twitching, his nostrils were flaring, his brows were scrunched up and merged into one over his nose, hell, he bet that vein in his neck was throbbing and popping.

"Really Dean? Really? Singing the Scorpions? Now? Here? At a time like this?"

"Who." Dean automatically corrected, still awash in misery and trying to decide whether to vomit or pass out. "Hot….just warm." what the hell was Sam doing now? What the fuck was on his face? His nose, his ears, touching his cheeks…oh sunglasses. Yeah, he probably should have thought about putting those on earlier. "Scorp's remade…..." aah, yeah, look at the look at that face, Sam was in no mood for a rock-n-roll history lesson. "I'm ready…." he swallowed, tonguing his teeth. "…..ready to go….home." he paused. "Where's…my…..soda?"

"You see?!" Sam's arms waved about so rapidly and with such abandon, that a breeze was created, a breeze Dean coveted and sought out. "THIS! This is what he always does!" Sam ranted at the doctor. "And you!" he turned on Dean. "This is why we can't go home." he took Dean's elbow, tightening his grip when Dean attempted to shake free, then pull loose. "You never listen! Couldn't sit still for five freaking minutes. Just had to go and get a soda! What the hell am I supposed to do with you? You're turning me grey and driving me to drink and making me a stress eater….."

"Sorry." Dean cut him off, speaking slowly, he wanted to be heard the first time. "You don't let go and gimme my soda, I'm gonna puke on your shoes." it wasn't an idle threat.

And, presto, all new Sammy. The cooling wafts of air stopped circulating when Sam drew his arms in for a landing but the cold bottle of soda was in his hand and guided to his mouth. Aah…..so good.

"Here." Sam limited his intake of the cold liquid. "Careful, no gulping." the flow of the soda was controlled but he was given all the time he needed to finally drink his fill. He heard voices, a murmuring hum of conversation going on around him, but he paid it no mind.

"Wheelchair's right here." the doctor retrieved it and wheeled it over, holding it steady while Sam manhandled Dean from the table he was perched on to the comfort and security of the chair with arms and foot rests.

"Thanks doc." Sam patted Dean's shoulder. "We're good."

Um…..yeah, okay, sure. Dean silently agreed, but he was ready to lie down, so he didn't argue or complain or comment when Sam wheeled – yes, wheeled or pushed, whatever – him out to the car, settled him in the passenger seat and left him – within eyesight, of course – to return the wheelchair to the hospital entrance. He didn't raise his head from the window when Sam returned, didn't offer criticism over Sam's driving or give advice on how to handle the car properly. He didn't ask where they were going or if they were going to go home, just obediently followed Sam from the car, up to the hotel room and went to bed, leaving Sam a jumble of nerves and full of anxiety.

***000***

Sam bumped the right-side tires off the berm, came to a stop, put the car in park and once again, consulted the GPS app on his tablet. Unlimited data plans were expensive and Sam had no idea how Dean paid the bill, but with two phones and two tablets needing the internet, he wasn't going to bitch about the expense or question how it was provided.

He was about to cry. Nothing, absolutely nothing was going his way. Aah, let's see, please let there be a connection…..yes!…well shit, nope, five miles later and nothing had changed. They were still in the middle of nowhere, it was still the middle of the night, though it was now 2:23 a.m. instead of 2:15 a.m., and they were five miles further down the same dark, deserted two-lane backwoods country road.

They'd left the hotel, where they'd remained a week after the visit to the hospital, late that afternoon. Though Dean was now able to tolerate light without towels draped over the shades or wearing sunglasses indoors, Sam hadn't been brave enough to attempt travelling during the day when the sun shone the brightest and the hottest. He'd planned, prayed and hoped for an easy trip, but no. No, Sam was a Winchester – the youngest – and that meant luck was rarely on his side and what luck he did get was so filtered down that by the time it reached him, it could only be described as: 'if it weren't for bad luck, he'd have no luck at all'.

First, they'd been held up in traffic due to an accident.  Three hours of sitting in the waning sun, though while not brutally hot, had given Dean one hell of a headache, making him cranky. Then, once finally through that, it'd taken over two hours to yield into one lane due to a lane closure and THEN – as if five fucking hours hadn't been enough of a fucking delay – they'd been forced onto a fucking detour, due to emergency road construction on a bridge. And oh yeah, congratulations, state of fucking Nebraska, for saving money by not spending any on supplying, you know, fucking detour signs.

Then, just when Sam thought they'd be able to make some progress, Dean had wanted to stop and eat. No, big brother had insisted disdainfully, crackers and apples and protein bars were not an acceptable snack, let alone a meal. Sam, tired of listening to him mope and whine and sigh, had driven some fifteen miles out of their way to find a diner. By the time they'd finished eating and left the restaurant - where Dean had eaten two bites of a chicken sandwich and five or six of Sam's fries - a mere hour later, a storm had blown up, making quick progress difficult.

The wind – never their friend – had forced Sam to pull off the road numerous times. Dean nauseous, Sam assumed, from the car buffeting in the uncooperative weather. Once, it had been over an hour before Dean had stopped moaning pitifully and breaking out into a new sweat whenever Sam mentioned continuing on. Maybe it had been the damn greasy diner food, Sam fretted, not that Dean had eaten all that much.

"Damn it." he slapped the steering wheel with both palms in frustration. "Fuck me." the app had road alerts and a red triangle began to flash. "Now what? What else...? Nonononononononononono!"

Dean stirred, offended by the abuse being dealt to his beloved car. "Watch it." he slurred sleepily. "She never did anything to you."

"Go back to sleep." Sam ordered shortly, in no mood to exchange words with Dean over something as trivial as his treatment of the car. He was too tired. His eyes burned and his vision was blurry, making his ability to judge distance non-existent. He wanted a hot shower, mug of vodka laced coffee, a pillow and a bed.

He sighed. Dean was uneasy, the weather was awful and he was exhausted. He really should see about getting his brother somewhere safe where he could get him warm and dry and fed some Tylenol…..but home was less than two hours away and boy, it was tempting to drive on. Dean wanted to go home, and Sam wanted him home, but Sam was also the nervous-ninny who wanted off the road. He knew his limitations, but if asked, Dean would say; suck it up and drive on; would suffer his misery in silence and deal if it meant his memory-foam-it-remembers-me mattress was his reward for doing so.

Sam's fingers rat-a-tat-tatted on the steering wheel in rhythm to the rain. Oh hell. Another sigh. Should he concede defeat and find a motel, wherever the fuck they were – he didn't even know anymore – wasn't any town nearby – drive on, or pull off and spend what was left of the night in the car? What to do, what to do, what should he do? A sign, any sign would be nice. Hey bud, you out there, Cas? Little help here, dude.

Red flash, red flash, red flash. The tablet, balanced on his thigh, seemed to grow hot. Okay… what did that red flashing triangle mean…..let's see…what? Road closed ahead? Bridge out? Severe flooding? Turn radio to 1610 a.m. for further information. Well, that was new, who knew a mere app could be so specific?

"Okay Cas, that the best you can do?" Sam fiddled with the knob, trying to tune in the station. Seriously, would it kill Dean to upgrade the radio? You know, get one with a digital display and numbered preset stations? Ooops, too far, back up, wow, lots of static…..there…..a recording…..yup, that was the road they were on….mile marker…..mile marker…no, not to mile seventy-four yet…..what? Oh, sure, sure, the app was right, the road was closed. No further progress past exit seventy-four was possible. "It's good Cas, I'll take it. Thanks."

Well-ell-el, that made his decision easy, and he set about trying to find a motel. His thumb scrolled and swiped; huh, no, no town, nothing. Couldn't go forward, the thought of turning around nearly gave him a stroke…..couldn't stay where they were…so…..uh, Cas? He waited, and several seconds later, a blue blip on the screen popped up. He pressed it for more information, a…..vacation resort? Well, that was weird. They were in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, who the hell would vacation out here? Duh, Sam, did it matter? As long as it was a comfortable, stable retreat that offered warmth and shelter and a bed, it could be a religious retreat run by militia militants and he wouldn't care.

He hesitated briefly, a resort usually required a reservation but surely, they'd take into account the weather and the flooding, right? Didn't matter, they'd give him a room or else! Or else, he'd hold a gun on whoever had the misfortune to deny him the opportunity to make his brother comfortable until someone gave them somewhere to sleep – even if it meant he had to take hostages and leave them bound and gagged in some dark and dank basement. Or, considering Sam's mood was now bordering on violent, outside tied to a tree.

"Hang on Dean." Sam shifted the transmission into drive and managed a neat K-turn. "Hey? You ok?"

"Lemme 'lone." he mumbled. "It still raining?" he was still wet from his last dash out of the car to puke in a ditch and Sam didn't know if he shivered from the cold or illness or pain.

"Yeah. You good?" Sam still wasn't sure if it'd been the diner food – hell, his own stomach was queasy – or the motion of the car making Dean sick. He blamed his own unsettled stomach on stress and anxiety.

"Mmmm." his head rested against the cool window, cheek squeaking along the glass when the car hit a pothole or bump, of which, Dean decided, there were way too many. His stomach would soon force another stop. Though, if Sam would quit forcing him to drink water every five freaking minutes, he bet he'd stop puking. When they stopped again – and they would – he was crawling into the backseat and lying down for the duration of the ride.

He snorted, yeah, that'd cause an epic Sam freak-out.

"What?" Sam asked, leaning forward to peer out the windshield. "Would it kill this county to, you know, install a street light or two? Cripe." he complained testily, so not in mood to have anything else in the way of weather or traffic thrown at him. "I can't see a fucking thing."

"…..me to drive?" Dean stirred, sitting up and blinking at the windshield. "Huh." he rubbed his eyes, man was his vision blurry. Like, really blurry. Like, super blurry. Like, he couldn't make out shapes or objects blurry. "Memmbe not." his stomach coiled, tightened and threatened to force his insides out any available orifice. Oh, he knew that feeling well – panic. "Sam?! SAM!"

"What? What, I'm right here."

"Sam, my eyes!" his hands rubbed his eyes and he flailed, feet kicking. "MY EYES! Sam! MY….I…..I….stop…..STOP! SAM!"

"Hey, hey, hey." Sam braked and came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the lane. "Dean, Dean, hey, you're ok….calm down." when he couldn't grab his brother's hands with his ass parked behind the steering wheel, he hastily slammed the car into park, ignored the growl from the transmission over the abuse and slid across the seat. "Dean, hey, HEY! What are you doing?" he grappled with his brother for the upper hand. "Stay in the car…gimme your hands….Dean, hey, hey, hey….no. Stop shouting, I'm right here. Feel me, okay? Right here….give me your hands…that's it." he finally succeeded in capturing Dean's hands and when he squeezed, his thumbs rubbing Dean's palms, his brother stopped blabbering nonsense Sam couldn't understand and fell silent, his breathing fast pants. "Now, you calm? You ok? Dean, hey, look at me."

Dean nodded, hands grasping the sleeves of Sam's jacket and he held tight with clenched fingers, his head lowered.

"Now, tell me what's wrong." Sam said, struggling for calm and control. His heart was about to kick its way right out of his chest. He couldn't take many more scares from his brother, he just couldn't.

Dean, eyes closed, took a deep breath, struggled to control his panic and squeezed Sam's forearms. "I CAN'T SEE!" Christ alive, how many times did he have to say it before Sam got it through his thick head?! "I. Can't. See!"

Well knowing how rapidly his brother could succumb to panic, Sam raised an arm and held Dean's head still by an iron grip on his jaw, forcing him to eye level. "Look at me…hey, no…don't slant your eyes sideways, look at me. At me, Dean….that's it…what do you see? Do you see me?" but Dean wasn't listening, straining to stare out the windshield.

Sam's mind whirled. For the life of him, he couldn't recall temporary blindness being a symptom of the concussion. Though in his current state, he doubted he could remember his own name. He relaxed his hold from Dean's jaw, turned the dome light on and moved his hand to shield Dean's eyes from the light, and in doing so, blocked his peripheral vision.

"You calm now? Can you tell me what…..?" he caught sight of the windshield; the rain-running windshield, because the wipers were idle. "This?" he reached for the wiper switch, Dean's hand going with his because Dean refused to let go of him. "Dean, it's the rain, okay? Just rain. See? It's raining hard and you looked out the window, that's why everything is blurry and distorted, it's just rain."

Gulping, Dean slowly relaxed his grip of death from Sam's sleeves. Just when Sam thought Dean would pull away and resume his usual position, slumped against the door, his shoulder shuddered with the weight of Dean's head. Sam tipped his head back and peered down. Deciding Dean needed a moment, he allowed the position.

"You good?" Sam asked after a good five minutes and Dean finally pulled away and leaned over the seat to root in the back for a bottle of water. "We can't stay here."

"Don't feel too good." Dean admitted tiredly. "Where are we?"

Sam shifted to drive and eased the car forward, mindful of the slick road and her being ass-end heavy. "I dunno, lost."

"Huh." Dean settled in the passenger seat and just like that, leaving Sam to stew, went back to sleep, all prior signs of panic and discontent gone.

The Impala, bless her loyalty and dependability, had two speeds on the wipers; slow and fast, no interment. Slow wasn't fast enough, fast slapped the window in tempo, giving Sam a headache that increased his irritability with; the weather, the car, his brother, his life. One eye on the road, the other slanted at his brother, Sam drove on at the top speed of 15 miles an hour, his 'third eye' on the moving blip on the GPS map. No wonder mom's had eyes in the back of their heads.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam stared at the screen, the blue blip no longer moved, just blipped, marking the spot, so he stopped the car and leaned forward to peer out the windshield. There was no town, not one building, not even a fucking lamp-post. He growled, contemplating throwing his tablet with its flashing red triangles and blue blips out the window and stomping on it before kicking it to never-land. How did a person de-wing or do whatever the hell one did to incapacitate an angel? Oh, he knew how, he just…..wait…..what was that? He waited impatiently for the lightning to flash again…yup, there….. a wooden sign next to a turn-off. Sam wouldn't exactly call it a road, but yeah, the dirt, rutted lane was wide enough to maneuver a car down.

Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, fingers fisted around the steering wheel so tightly he was surprised it didn't crack under the pressure, he turned down the lane. He drove for about a half mile before the cars headlights cut through the curtain of rain to show a log shack – no, correction – make that a shed.

Oh. Good. God.

 _This_ was Cas's idea of a safe haven? Appropriate shelter? Acceptable accommodations? A one-room shack in the middle of god-damn fucking nowhere? Hell, Sam didn't even see power lines. He shifted into park, and consulted his watch, 3:37 a.m. Oh yeah, by now, he was having a full-blown, fuming fit. He took a moment to look around, twisting in the seat to look out all the windows. Nope, no power lines, no paved parking lot, not even a paved road. Hell, no sign of any road other than the muddy one he was parked on.

Great.

Well, there….that! That could be a wan light visible from a square window set high in the door. Course, through the rain and gloom, it could be his eyes playing tricks on him too. Well, four walls and a roof were better than the car, so might as well see what the interior of the shack had to offer. Leaving Dean in the car with it running, he slipped and slid in the rain, through the slop, across the mud, over the flooded grass and under a sign. He ducked under it, then backed-up, still stooped over to shine his flashlight on it so he could read it.

"River Lake Camp." he pushed his hair back. "Oh, you've got to be fucking with me!" not another campground, please no. He'd yet to hear the end of the last time he'd housed Dean at a campground. "Cas….I'll get you for this."

He mounted the wood steps that led to a small porch on what – upon closer inspection – could be described as a small, very small, cabin rather than a mere shed. Before he could do more than touch the door knob, the door opened from the inside and he was greeted by an elderly man dressed in a….boy scouts uniform? Yes, indeed. Oh boy.

"Well, good evening, young fellow!" the man boomed jovially, despite it being the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a freaking storm. "Come in, come in. Right nasty weather we're having, huh? Reckon I don't have to guess what brings you clear up here this time o-night in this weather, though I'll admit to being surprised they got cell reception out there."

"Uh." Sam used the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. "What?"

"Your young one?" the door closed behind Sam and he immediately turned to open it, not wanting any obstacle between him and his view of the car. "I'm betting little Billy, am I right? Had him pegged for a Momma's boy, that one."

"Um….no….no. I'm sorry sir, what?"

"Call me Will." he held his hand out. "Pleased to meet you. I met most of the parents on drop-off day, don't recollect seeing you though. Step-dad maybe?"

Sam pulled it together and shook the man's hand. The one-room cabin boasted a pot-belly stove in the corner that, though small, warmed the room quite comfortably. As he looked around, comprehension dawned; smacked him right upside the head, struck him in the forehead, chucked him under the chin. A retreat, the small cabin, the man in uniform, the pictures and plaques on the walls, the ribbons and badges on every available counter space, the books on the tables, the magazines in the racks, the information pamphlets on display…..yup…..they were indeed at, none other than a Cub/Boy Scout Camp.

"Erhm….aah….no….no. We're…" he couldn't stop stuttering. "Is this a camp for _Scouts_?" he blurted out rudely. Could be worse, he thought, shoving irritably at his dripping hair, could be a Girl Scouts camp. He shuddered, and it wasn't because of the chilled air outside or the cold rain. No, it was over the thought of a bunch of pre-pubescent girls giggling and tee-heeing over Dean's green eyes and freckles or, God Forbid, the adult counselors and chaperones fussing over the milking-it-for-all-he's-worth little shit who would play-up his injury and illness to gain underserved sympathy and attention….

"Yessir!" Will beamed. "Right proud of it, we are. Bird-watching, hiking, kayaking, swimming, tree planting, plant collecting, insect hunting, fishing, boat rowing, animal and tree and plant identification. We teach about fire safety and….." he chattered on. "….survival and….."

The camp, Sam learned with an eagle eye and attentive ear; contained a kitchen, dining hall, toilets, and a first aid station – all out back – in tents. There were no rooms or cabins other than the one in which he stood; the Scouts stayed in tents behind the lodge or in the great wide open when they hiked down the hill to camp next to the river that fed into the lake. Down the road a ways was a cluster of houses, no, no motels or any place with rooms to rent, with a gas station/mini-mart. Well, la-de-la, finally, something was going their way.

"Where are we?" Sam demanded impatiently, interrupting when Will paused for a breath. "There was an accident, and a detour, then emergency road work. We got delayed, then lost. The weather turned and I'm beat and my brother isn't feeling well. Is there a motel in town?" all those outdoor activities? Really? Wasn't the state of Nebraska known for, you know, farm land?

"Passing through, eh? Which way you headed?" Will was flipping through a 3-ring binder and counting. "Closet motel is seventeen miles west, can't reach it though." he found what he'd been looking for and with a finger marking his spot on the page, looked up at Sam. "That emergency road work, no doubt, was the bridge on Rte. 45. No going back, they closed it, couldn't repair it tonight. Can't go forward neither, Little Creek flooded her banks and her bridge is under water. Now though, bit of good news, the troop is camping out at the lake. I can offer you a tent outback."

"Oh." Sam shook his head. "Uh…..flood?" he grimaced, Dean in a tent? Even for the remainder of the night? The campground had at least afforded them a well-sized camper with electricity and heat. Yeah, no, bunking down in a tent wouldn't go over well at all. But…but it was late, middle-of-the-night late, almost-dawn late and even if he could, Sam didn't want to drive another seventeen miles in search of a motel, he didn't think he could, but….. "Um." he rubbed his forehead with his thumbs, his poor mind simply didn't want to think. It was Tuesday, right? No, now it was pre-dawn Wednesday morning…..so….so, so what? What difference did it make what day of the week it was? Didn't change their situation or circumstances at all. "Um…"

"Not going south are you?" Will asked. "Hit worse down that way."

Now, how'd he go and guess that correctly? "Um….yeah. Kansas." his brain smacked his skull. "Wait, you said…flood?"

"Woo-wee, you sure did take some twists and turns to end up here. We're thirty-two miles off the interstate. These back roads have a habit of flooding. You're not going anywhere until we get some news on the road conditions." Will was way too cheerful for Sam's current mood. "Tents are big enough for two, cots with sleeping bags or you can spread a sleeping bag out on the floor in the cafeteria, but the tent offers some privacy, more comfort and they're warmer."

"Flood?" not an ideal situation. Not the accommodations Sam wanted, but the bare truth was, he was too exhausted to continue on. What harm could come from spending a couple of hours sleeping in a tent? Decision made, Sam said thank-you and good-night, returned to the car and drove the short distance around the cabin to the muddy field that served as a parking lot. Oh but Den was going to throw a fit when he saw the state of the car, for surely, come daylight, she'd be sporting a coating of mud up to her wheel wells.

Surprisingly, Dean didn't question the order to get out of the car. The door opened and he stumbled from the seat, staggering towards…..huh. He stopped, raised a hand to shield his eyes against the gentle but steady rainfall, hunched his shoulders against the cold and buffeting winds and stared. Yeah, no, see…..couldn't be…no way…nuh-huh. He couldn't be seeing what he was seeing because that would mean…..

"What the hell?" he sputtered, feet refusing to advance him further. "Where the fuck are we Sam?" his head must still be befuddled, yeah, that was it. Sleep deprived or bad food or delirium because…. "Is that a tent?"

"Go inside Dean." Sam ordered.

"That's a tent."

"Don't do this Dean." Sam said wearily. "I'm not up to you throwing a fit. I'm just not, so cut me a break, will ya?"

"Really? Really Sam? I mean, _really_?!" his feet might not be working, but his eyes were working just fine now, much to his dismay. "That? You EXPECT me to sleep in that? In….in….that? That's a tent! I….I…..you _want_ me to sleep in a _tent?"_

"Yup and it doesn't matter how many times you say it, it ain't gonna change what it is." Sam rounded the back of the car and popped the trunk. "Best I could do. What's the big deal anyway?"

"The back seat of the Impala is better than this!" he grumbled some more but Sam couldn't make it out. "Tent's leak and they're cold and the ground's hard….are you listening to me?"

Aah, there was the harm; the imminent danger of becoming an only sibling via fratricide. "Yuh-huh." Sam said absently. In the truck sorting the bags he wanted to take into the tent with him, he really wasn't paying much attention to Dean's whining.

"I…..you know, there was the cabin at the lake that didn't have power and I didn't complain. And I didn't say anything when we shared that cabin with the Sheriff and his kid, or stayed with that old witch. My lips were sealed when we crashed at Jody's and when we stayed with that nurse the time you lost me. I forgave you for the horror of that B&B and didn't blame you for the camper. And all those times we squatted in abandoned buildings and houses were because you didn't want to sleep in the car. I didn't even hold it against you when you made me room with Garth…..GARTH but this? _THIS?_ Really?"

"You rented the cabin at the lake." Sam came out of the trunk with what he wanted and slammed it closed. "There was nothing wrong with staying with Jack. Grandma wasn't a bad witch and having to stay with her was all your fault because you shacked up with some unstable bimbo and – don't." he warned when Dean opened his mouth to protest. "Don't you dare say it was because Bobby and I sent you away. That's bullshit." he waved towards the tent to get Dean moving. "And I didn't lose you, you took off and you're damn lucky Suzie found you and took you home with her. It was Kevin who stranded you in the B&B with the family from hell, not me. And oh yeah, you're the one who ordered me to allow Garth into the cabin and it's because I didn't want you recovering in a mold-riddled house that I found a comfy, cozy camper for you."

"Oh." Dean rubbed his eyes. So, Sam had been listening to him. "Okay, fine, fine, blame it all on me, sure, I can handle it…..but Sam…..a _tent_?"

"It has cots; we won't be sleeping on the ground." Sam sighed. Now Dean woke up and found the ability to talk coherently? What happened to ranting about being blind? No, not talk, one thing about Dean, you could always depend on him to criticize – everything he didn't like.

"I'd rather sleep in the car."

"Well, you can't."

"What do you mean, I can't? Says who? You?" he didn't pause to give Sam time to answer, not that Sam had any intention of doing so anyway. "Why not? We've done it before, lotsa times." he was irritated. Yeah, sure, he'd wanted a place to lie down, the motion of the car making him nauseous, but…..this? Hell, they were barely out of the weather in a canvas tent! The car offered better protection and…

"Because I don't want to Dean!" San finally snapped and flared up. "I'm tired and the weather is shit and the wipers are splitting my head apart. I want to lie down without my chin on my knees. Your head can't still be so scrambled you can't understand that!"

Dean gave him a wounded look. "You don't have to yell at me." he said, affronted. "A simple explanation will do."

"No it won't. Nothing is ever good enough with you when you don't get your own way." Sam ranted. "Simple isn't in your vocabulary when it comes to getting what you want."

"And the insults begin."

"You want to do this now?" Sam shouldered a duffel, wet hair hanging in his face despite the wind doing its best to flip it around. "Fine, FINE! A grand place to pick this fight, but I'll oblige you. Once again, the situation we find ourselves in is because of you. Your fault Dean, you did this. You got hurt and arrested and landed in the hospital and got yourself laid up for weeks. How'd that happen again? Not like I know, you won't tell me anything. I still don't know what happened. Oh, the bar, that's right? Ring any bells? Oh, wait, you had your bell rung….."

"Sam, don't." Dean snapped. "I'm not gonna deal with you and your issues now." if Sam started pointing fucking fingers at him, he'd break 'em. "Always have to pick, don't you?"

"You're going to give me shit? Wow, been with it two days and bam, way to be a prick. Same old Dean, right back to blowing me off."

"I'm not blowing you off!" Dean shouted. "I don't REMEMBER what happened at the bar! IF I do, I'll give you every detail in instant replay, but until then – back the fuck off!"

"Really Dean? Really? You started this!"

"How?" Dean demanded. "Because I don't want to sleep in a fucking tent?"

"DO YOU SEE ANYPLACE ELSE TO STAY?" Sam bellowed. "DO YOU SEE A FUCKING LIGHT POST? DO YOU SEE ANYTHING OTHER THAN TREES?"

"Yeah, a tent!" he blinked, well hell, there was more than one tent. "Sam, I swear, if you found some freaky commune…."

"Just. Get. Inside." Sam ordered. "It's for one night Dean. You'll manage." he bit his lip to keep from bursting forth with the tirade building in his chest. "We'll leave in the morning."

Dean unzipped – _unzipped_ – the flap on the tent, ducked his head and entered. Surprisingly, the interior of the tent was dry, warmer than outside, and cut the wind. It boasted two cots to keep them from feeling the dampness of the ground, complete with pillows and all-weather sleeping bags; a table stood between them containing a battery-operated clock and a solar LED lantern; another table was at the foot of the cots with two Maglite flashlights, extra batteries, some books and magazines and a map of the camp ground. No source of heat, though.

Yeah, these were no ordinary back-pack tents. These were stationary, like those on M.A.S.H., but Dean didn't care about the interior of the tent or Sam's snit-fit. He shed his wet clothes, left them in a pile on what was actually a floor, sat down on the cot to remove his boots and jeans, stood up, unzipped and then crawled into the sleeping bag. He laid down facing the wall of the tent, completely ignoring his brother.

"Oh, no you don't." Sam ignored the dire threats issued by an irate Dean and thrown at him like iron anvils when he forced his brother to rouse for some Tylenol and to towel his hair dry with a pillow case. "Always gotta give me a hard time, don't you?" he wanted out of his own wet clothes and the comfort of the warm sleeping bag but Dean came first.

"Lemme be." Dean slurred sleepily. Lulled by the warmth of the sleeping bag and the ability to lie down, he was only awake because Sam had yet to leave him alone, his earlier disgruntlement over his sleeping accommodations forgotten. "Go a 'way."

Sam hovered around inside the tent searching and snooping until he was sure Dean slept, then grabbed a flashlight from the table as well as his own pocket light and ventured back out into the rainy, chilly night. If only he could sleep, he sighed, as the wind stung his cheeks. The rain had let up to a drizzle but the ground was soggy and full of puddles. Please, don't let the tent leak!

"I'm so sick and tired of detours and getting lost in freak storms and floods and mud and campers and cabins and rustic motels." Sam muttered to the tree he was taking a breather against. He pushed his hair back. "I feel like I'm the damsel in distress in some horror flick, running, looking over her shoulder, always falling. Rinse and repeat."

He trudged on. He was exhausted, his head pounded from tension and his eyes burned with fatigue but now that they were off the road, he needed to know they were safe where they were. If he were to gain any peace of mind, he needed to have a look around the campground and ensure the tent wasn't in danger from a falling tree or even a tree limb or a flood, or worse, a mudslide.

He hadn't even made a complete circle of the cluster of tents when a swath of light cut across the clearing. It swept over the car then came to rest on Sam. "Ahoy! Hello there!"

Sam put his hands up, he had no idea who was confronting him and didn't want to startle anyone into shooting him. He huffed, digging a heel into the mud, and when he felt no immediate threat, his hand without the flashlight eased behind his back to finger his .9 mm.

"Yeah, uh, hi." Sam said, shouting to be heard. "I don't mean anyone any harm." his mind was catching up and duh, it was doubtful armed men were patrolling a Cub Scout campground.

"Bad weather to be out in. What are you doing out here?"

"We were forced off the road for the night." Sam explained as the man, clad in a dark colored rain slicker came up beside him, armed only with a huge flashlight. "Bridge is flooded going south. Will offered us a tent for the night." or what's left of it, Sam thought sourly.

"Well, of course he did. Bet you came in on Rte. 45. Can't repair that bridge you know, closed it until the state engineers can come get a look at it. Welcome." he extended a hand which Sam shook. "Name's Rob. Town's reachable, but no place to stay, though the church hall is open as a shelter. Town of York, which offers reasonable rooms for rent is on the other side of mountain. Doubt you can drive there though."

Mountain? Really? Again, wasn't Nebraska known for its farm land? Wait, town? Was he referring to what Will had called a 'cluster of houses'? Will had said there was a mini-mart, he hadn't mentioned a church. Wow, he couldn't think straight, nothing was making any sense.

"You musta come in the back way." the man continued, not at all bothered by the rain or wind. "Pretty lucky you were able to navigate that dirt road. Heck, pretty darn lucky you even found us. We aren't on any map." he chattered on, walking with Sam while Sam completed his 'look around' until he was satisfied they would be safe staying in the tent. They were on high ground with the stream below them and no trees were within striking distance of the camp site.

Sam said good-night to Rob and returned to the tent, expecting to find Dean still asleep but nope, of course not. No, his obstinate, pig-headed brother was sitting up on the cot and struggling to find his way out of the sleeping bag. An object, mind you, that he had plenty of experience with and, were he not currently temporarily damaged in the head, would have no problem getting out of. Sam smirked; big ole bad hunter Dean stymied by a zipper. Then he sighed and ceded defeat. If Dean's current fit was being thrown over his insistence he stay in the car, Sam wasn't going to stop him.

"If you don't want to stay here, there's a shelter at the church hall a mile or so away." Sam said shortly. "Another cot, bright lights, no privacy, lots of noise, god knows who staying there. You wanna go, I'll take you."

"You're back?" Dean gave up on the zipper and sat with his hands in his lap, legs still encased in the sleeping bag, feet still on the cot. "Nah, I'm good." he laid down, pulling the sleeping bag up to his chin.

Sam removed his boots and wet clothing then dried off with the pillow case before swallowing some aspirin. Dean hadn't been getting up to leave or to go sleep in the car. No, he'd been getting up to go out and search for Sam because Sam had been gone from the tent too long. He snorted, he hadn't been gone fifteen minutes, but apparently, that was fourteen minutes too long to satisfy Dean.

Before crawling into his own sleeping bag, he swung his flashlight around the tent, not missing how Dean ducked his head under the bag to avoid the beam – Dean, who was curled up on his side, hugging a pillow. Great, he was cold. Sam quickly poked around every corner of the tent, nope, no extra blankets. Well, there was probably one or two out in the car.

"Just going out to the car." Sam said quietly, reeling in his annoyance. He didn't relish a dash out to the car in the cold rain but if he were to get any sleep at all, he'd need to make sure Dean was all comfy-cozy. Well, fine, but he'd be damned if he got redressed to retrieve a blanket from the car. Who the hell was around to see him, anyway?

There were two on the backseat and though he originally intended to give both to Dean, his teeth chattered by the time he returned and dried off. So, he wrapped up in the thinner of the two and finally crashed on the other cot, all snug as a bug in the sleeping bag.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hear you!
> 
> Happy soon-to-be-Fall everyone! My favorite season.

They didn't leave in morning:

1\. Neither Dean nor Sam was awake before noon and when Sam did finally see daylight, it was still raining.  
2\. Sam was still tired, and Dean complained about a headache.  
3\. The car was up to her doors in mud.  
4\. When Sam walked over to the cabin, he learned the roads ahead were blocked, and the bridge behind wouldn't even be looked at until the weather cleared.  
5\. They were safe right where they were and they had nowhere to go.

Dean dragged his spoon through the soup that, after playing in for several minutes, was too cool to eat. He pushed the bowl away with a sigh, cupped his chin in his hand and morosely picked up another slice of buttered bread. He held no enthusiasm for camp food geared towards eleven year-olds, but his tent lacked a kitchenette, no microwave, no mini 'fridge, no toaster oven, hell, it didn't even have electric, so the camp kitchen it was.

Boy, he missed toast. He didn't care what anyone said or how many times Sam preached it; toast tasted better with both butter AND peanut butter. And while there were jars of peanut butter aplenty, he'd never gotten the hang of toasting bread over an open flame. The propane fed camp stove in the kitchen was off-limits and beyond his current capabilities anyway. He just wasn't up to the verbal argument required to get his own way. The short little Asian man who ruled the kitchen didn't speak English and warned everyone away from his appliances by wielding a wooden spoon he wasn't afraid to use.  Dean would know, the back of his hand still stung!

One night, Sam had said. Yeah, right. Ho-hum.

He licked the butter from the bread, and drank his coffee. The camp might lack electricity, but there was a generator that ran at intervals to keep the 'fridge and freezer running. God knew the earth would tilt and spin right off its axis if the little rug rats were denied fresh milk. Powdered milk had been good enough for him when he'd been a kid, but noooo, not these days.

He hadn't been overly thrilled with Sam's decision to remain at the camp but he hadn't been too upset either. He was still so tired, his eyes heavy and the cot he hadn't wanted to sleep in appealed to him more than the passenger seat of the car did. Not that, under any circumstances, would he ever admit any such thing to Sam. Maybe the weather had something to do with it. He'd spent the day sleeping, lulled to laziness by the sound of the rain bouncing off the tent, finally getting up when hunger had forced him to seek out something to eat.

After an argument, some threats, some pleading, more arguments and finally, capitulation, Sam had left with Rob to go down to the campsite by the river and check on the kids. He'd left Dean with strict instructions and threats of violence – something about how easily ears detached from heads – if he didn't obey Sam's orders to remain AT the camp! And Sam's definition of remaining IN the camp included going no further than their tent, the cabin, the tent that housed the kitchen and the tent that housed the 'latrine'. His orders were simple: Dean was not to hike, stroll, run, swim, climb, drive, row, pedal, bend, lift, carry, swing, shoot or cook.

He'd also left Dean with the paperback western, a fully charged laptop with a dvd movie and the latest issue of Guns and Ammo to keep him amused while Sam was gone. After all, Sam had said, they were in the middle of nowhere with nothing and no one around them, what trouble could Dean possibly find to get into?

Trouble? No. Boredom? Yes. The laptop screen was too small to watch the movie on and the light was too bright to play the pre-loaded games for his barely recovered poor head. He'd dressed – Sam having produced black t-shirts and clean jeans from somewhere – and walked over to the kitchen tent for something to eat and here he sat. No idea what time it was or where they were or why or when Sam would be back or hell, why he'd even gone in the first place.

"Howdy, there son." Will strolled in and helped himself to a cup of coffee. "Rob just radio'd in. Everyone's fine, they're breaking camp and hiking back up here. They're gonna head out to the road, and come up that way, will take a little longer, but it's safer. Your brother passed along a message."

"Yeah, yeah, stay put, don't do anything stupid, take it easy…..blah, blah, blah." Dean waved him off. "Uh…how long do you think they'll be?"

"Several hours. It takes a while to get thirteen ten and eleven-year olds moving. I'm on my way into town, care to ride along?"

Hum, how many of Sam's rules would that be breaking? Only one, but it was a big one – leaving the camp – but he wouldn't be hiking, strolling, running, swimming, climbing, driving, rowing, pedaling, bending, lifting, swinging, shooting, carrying or cooking a damn thing and Sam hadn't said anything about _riding_!

"Sure." he tied his boots and pulled on his jacket, that though damp in a few spots, wasn't wet. "We, uh, will be back before Sam finds his way back here, right?"

"Oh, most certainly." Will grinned.

"It's not what you're thinking." Dean objected. "I'm here when he gets back, hurricane Sammy will blow right through, no damage done. I'm not here when he gets back and there'll be destruction like you've never seen."

"He said you'd been hurt on the job. Head injury and you're still recovering. You were headed home when the traffic and road conditions derailed the trip."

Dean snorted. He was damn sure that while Sam might have shared information, he sure as hell hadn't used those words.

"Yeah, well, in our line of work, I'm off on my own, he'll only be mad at me. He finds out someone took me and…" and oh boy, there'd be hell to pay. He followed Will from the tent but hesitated when Will led him to a John Deere Gator, a glorified, souped up golf-cart, but what the heck, they had to get through all that mud somehow – and the parking lot was under water, no seriously, under water. Not puddles here and there – flooded. Ankle deep flooded. Oh-oh couldn't be good – and the two-seater had a cab so he shrugged off his unease and hopped in.

Sure, any type of four-wheeler had a tendency to be unstable but he doubted a Cub/Boy Scout leader would be bah-hahing through the rain soaked woods or hot-rodding it down the muddy road. Indeed, he thought a minute later, he could walk faster than Will was driving. There was little scenery to see; trees, bushes, trees until they came to the mini-mart/gas station. Down the road, and across the river, Dean could see several houses, and that was it.

The gas station was unlocked and though they were able to gain entrance, no one was there. They hollered and rang the bell but no one responded so they walked next door to the mini-mart. It too, was closed but when Dean knocked on the door and peeked through the window, an arm over his head to deflect the light, a man with one arm came to let them in.

"Hey Will, didn't recognize you at first. Don't know this fellow with you." they were greeted. "Nasty weather, huh?"

"Where is everyone?" Will asked, stepping through the door. "Gas station's locked up tight. Dean, this is Gene." Will introduced the two men to one another. "Dean and his brother got caught between bridges last night, so I put them up in one of the tents."

"Boys still down at the lake?"

"They're on their way up. Coming up the road though, Rob said the river's at her banks."

"Safest place for them." Gene agreed and the two locals launched into a conversation that left Dean forgotten; he could neither understand nor follow what they were talking about. Unease settled in the pit of his stomach as their animated discussion wound down and he was able to pick up the topic was now only about the weather.

"Ain't much I can do to help, what with one arm and all, but I brewed up some coffee, filled every cup and thermos I could find, gonna put it all in the wagon along with some bottled water and walk it on over."

"Say what?" Dean butted in. He'd had enough of being left out and forgotten, time to insert his take-charge natural attitude. "Wait, are you…? What are you saying?" damn, he raised a hand to massage his forehead. His head hadn't hurt all day, why did it have to attack him now with a vengeance? Stress, must be stress. Hadn't Sam repeatedly told him over the last week or so, not to stress out? Let him do all the planning, all the worrying! Stress, apparently, wasn't good for post-concussion recovery. Well, according to Sam anyway.

"The church." Gene said simply, as if that explained it all.

"The church? Sam said…..you mean the shelter?" he waited for the man to nod. "What about it?" Dean sniffed, no, no scent of smoke. "Where is it?"

"Over the river and through the woods...…" Gene waved in the general direction of the door. "And up the hill."

"So, highest ground?" Dean reasoned, biting his lip to hide a wince. Not now, not now, not now. Behave head, I will wrestle you into submission. I will conquer your rebellion. I will….

"…..and the church is the town's shelter….." Gene was saying. "….but the river…" Dean was catching words, but not the explanation. "…separates the camp and…"

"Say, uh…..Gene is it?" Dean interrupted, taking a cup of coffee from Will and nodding his thanks. "Gene, why don't you start at the beginning and catch me up?"

"Sure, sure…" he launched into an explanation while Dean and Will helped him load the children's wagon with the coffee and water. Gene added canisters of sugar and powdered creamer. "….so, everyone's over filling sandbags, try and divert the water from flooding the church."

"I see." yeah, no, I really don't. "The church….?" he swallowed a handful of aspirin one of his pockets coughed up. Sam wouldn't like that, no sirree, not one bit!

"The town sits between the river and the creek. While the creek's flooded, its waters probably won't reach us. The river, should she flood…well, the church is on the highest ground. The town floods, folks ain't got anywhere else to go."

"Town? I only saw a bunch of houses." Dean felt his neck prickle. If George didn't just spit out what the hell was going on, Dean was going to shake the living shit right out of him. "What about the camp, it's on high ground?"

"Well, yeah." Gene nodded. "About fifteen families live here in this hollow. Church sits on ground higher than the camp."

Hollow? Jesus Fucking Christ, where the hell had Sam left him?

"Wait, just wait." Dean paused, cup of black coffee in his hand. Uh, yeah, Dean, you dumbass, you just left the _flooded_ parking lot of the campground. "Start over Gene." he turned to Will, eyebrow cocked as he waited for an explanation.

"The town and the Scout campground are between the river that feeds the lake and the stream that runs from the lake." Will explained. "We'll radio Rob and have him bring the kids right to the church."

"Where you could be flooded from two sides." Dean pointed out sarcastically.

"Still the safest place." Will said firmly. "It's the highest ground." he repeated. "The Sheriff's department will come out in boats to get folks, we'll be fine."

"What is everyone doing over at the church?" Dean asked. They'd told him but he couldn't remember. "The town hasn't flooded yet."

"Everyone's over filling sand bags." Gene said. "Usually, we're well warned of any potential flooding and the National Guard comes out to do what's needed to protect the town."

Dean walked with Gene, who pulled the wagon down the street, around the corner, and up a hill, that though not steep, had a steady incline that left him breathless. Will followed in the Gator, now loaded with boxes of donuts and pre-packaged snack cakes and cookies. The river, maybe two-car lengths wide, probably had a gentle flow that would normally be considered gentle.

Not now.

While the river didn't exactly rage, it was swift, the current strong with the occasional white cap and littered with trash, tree limbs and debris. Oh yeah, she was at her banks alright. In fact, the traffic bridge was under water, only the rails remained visible. No one would be driving across it. Dean eyed the foot-bridge, its arch was higher than the traffic bridge, and though still crossable, the water was already across the boards. And the rain still fell, and the ground, already saturated, had nowhere for more water to go. Yeah, the force of that current could well be detrimental to any sandbag retaining wall the local residents managed to erect.

Really? Another bridge under water? Another flooded river? Stranded in the woods? During a storm? Again? Really? _Really_?

The other side of the river had already flooded. No land was visible as far as he could see. He reached into his pocket for his cell to call Sam. Yeah, sure, he'd left it in the tent. Was there even cell service up here? No biggee, he'd deliver the wagon, help unload the Gator then return to the camp and be right where Sam had left him when Sam finally returned.

He relieved Gene the burden of the wagon so he could use his arm to steady his way across the bridge. Will waited until they were across, judged the water and drove right through. The Gator bogged about but trudged onward and emerged on the other side. It wouldn't be doing so again.

Yup, easy-peasy, that was his plan. Well, it was until they finally topped the hill and rounded the church to greet the worst assembled assembly line Dean had ever seen in his life. Not that he'd ever come across a sand-bag assembly line before, but even so, talk about disorganization.

A for effort. D for execution. F for accomplishment.

Everyone, and he guessed there was about twenty people, was doing their own bag. Some filled their bag completely, others over filled, others didn't fill enough; some were carried and stacked, others were left where they were filled. Yeah, their intent was good but their execution was deplorable. At this rate, they'd all drown before they'd made a wall higher than ankle-deep. No one appeared in charge, no one gave orders or designated duties or executed a plan. No progress was being made, nothing was being accomplished and though unseen to the untrained eye, water edged higher by the moment though it had yet to reach the church yard.

"National Guard, huh?" Dean commented wryly, surveying the busy, disorganized activity. "No one has ever filled a sandbag before, have they?" or lifted and carried and stacked one. Or made a wall.

"Folks don't give up around here." Gene said proudly.

Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it. Don't. Do. It. Do. Not. Do. It.

He did it.

"Get everyone up here now." Dean ordered. The cluster of houses was closest to the river and would be the first to flood, should – no, when – the river spilled over its banks. "Everyone Gene, man, woman, child, infant. Hell, bring the family dog if that's what it takes to get people out of their house." he clapped his hands then stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle to get everyone's attention. "That's it, listen up." he shouted. "Grandmas and anyone with bad health go to the hall and set up cots and blankets and tables. Put food out, I'm hungry. Take anyone under the age of three with you. Kids, ages four to sixteen, to the sand pile. Women, grab a bag, find scissors or a knife and start cutting lengths of twine to tie the bags closed. Men….ALL MEN...follow me."

Yup, a born leader, an experienced planner, used to giving orders, able to judge any situation or disaster and take control, adept at being in command; that was how Dean Winchester became the organizer and leader of the whatever-town sandbag assembly line and wall erector.

***000***

They were working against Mother Nature herself, and as with Dean's prior experience with the temperamental force, she wasn't willing to give anyone a break. The rain didn't slacken, the wind remained strong and cold, the river, unseen but known just the same, continued to rise, its current grew stronger, and while there was no shortage of bags (Dean had no idea where the supply had come from, the MIA National Guard, he assumed) or sand – now wet and clumpy – people began to tire. Himself included. No one complained about the pace Dean set and kept, but exhaustion took a toll and he finally allowed people to take ten-minute breaks, three people at a time. The townsfolk might not like it, but even if they didn't realize they were in a race against time, Dean did.

"Where's your buddy?" a man who had worked side-by-side with Dean for hours, asked Gene.

"He was feeling a mite flimsy." Will answered. "Went inside to get some water and sit down for a spell."

"Lawman, he said?"

"Reckon so, knows his way around." Will agreed, he really didn't know all that much about the brothers who had appeared in the middle of the night seeking refuge from the weather and bad luck on the roads. He knew one thing, though, he was damn glad Dean had taken charge. "Got injured on the job, slow recovery."

Flimsy? Dean chuckled wearily as he completed a walk around the church, inspecting the waist-high wall; the tight, well-packed sturdy wall that would hopefully succeed in keeping the water from engulfing the church should the river flood completely and the water get high enough to reach them. He mounted the steps of the church. The women and youngest children had retreated to the attached hall so the church was peacefully quiet. The men continued to work outside, Gene included, but Dean either had to take a break or he was going to pass out. There were some things a human body just couldn't do. Endurance was one thing that was marked with a limit. Much as Dean wanted to charge on, keep bending and lifting, filling and heaving, stacking and packing, his mind, his muscles, his aching head said: no more.

"Thanks." he said distractedly, accepting a towel from someone, a cup of something liquid from someone else and heading to the back of the church to peer out the window, wanting to see if the Scout camp was visible in the distance.

It wasn't.

"Where the hell are you Sammy?" he walked through the door to the hall, where cots had been set up earlier. For the amount of kids and dogs and the occasional cat, running amuck, all was pretty well contained. There weren't enough cots for everyone, they'd be occupied by the elderly and the women. Kids would use sleeping bags on the floor and there were enough blankets for the men who would use the pews in the church. Not ideal, but warm and dry and, for now, safe.

So far, the electricity remained, but cell towers weren't sending out signals and phone lines were down. A couple of the men were talking about attempting to cross the bridge back to the gas station to see if the CB was operational. Walki-talkies had gone silent and Will was no longer able to radio Rob. So, great, cut off from the outside world. Yay!

Not to worry, Will insisted. The local Sheriff knew the Scout camp was active and it wouldn't be long before help started to arrive. Heck, rescue crews probably already had, at the camp anyway. Okay, whew. Dean thought, head throbbing, pounding, pulsating. Mmmm…maybe a short nap. No, something to eat. Something more substantial than donuts and coffee. Someone had said a sandwich had been set aside for him…..he should go see about….

The earth shook.

Dean paused, shaking his head. Wow, okay, yeah, he'd been inactive for a couple of weeks, hadn't been eating good, had allowed Sam to pamper and simper and…..

The very floor beneath his feet shook.

Every tree, every bush, every sodden flower quivered as the ground beneath the church heaved and shifted. The windows rattled and the entire building vibrated as though someone had picked the structure up and shook it, like manhandling a snow globe.

Vrrr…vrrrvrrrvrr…Vrrr. VaaRRoomMM..BOOM!

Dean grabbed the back of a pew to keep his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. Whether from exhaustion or the earth literally moving under his feet, he didn't know. Not that it mattered, his body already weak and tired, offered no fight when his knees buckled and dumped him to all fours.

"AVALANCE!"

Came the cries all around him. The word finally penetrated his brain and it encouraged him to react. His mind, agreeing for once to work with his brain without an argument, whirled and spun before skidding to an abrupt halt; it picked up noises and voices and sounds, spit out the ones it didn't agree with, and ignored the words he knew were wrong.

Get down, get under. Get down, get under, get with it. Come on Dean, standing around like you don't know what to do is either going to get you injured or killed. Avalanche? Really? Again? God, not again. Wasn't being caught in one enough in mans a life time? Still on all fours, he crawled to the nearest wall, lowered himself to his belly and slithered underneath a pew.

His mind vehemently protested. Oh now, wait a minute! Hold on! Avalanche? No way, not here, not now, not in this weather….well, not snow anyway. But mud…?

"Mudslide?" Dean popped out from under the pew, gained his feet and rushed outside, exhaustion and aching head forgotten. The mudslide was to their right, between the church and, a good mile or better away, the Scout camp. He had no way of knowing if Sam and the troop had reached it and if they had, if it remained safe.

The hill he'd climbed earlier hadn't appeared steep, but it was higher than he'd thought, and the church and the hall were still, for the time being, safe. But mud and water oozed sluggishly, steadily creeping towards their protective wall. Down at the bottom of the hill, barely visible through the rain, the gloomy dusk, and the settling cloud of dust - despite the rain - from the destructive mudslide, where once stood a cluster of houses, was an ocean of mud.

No sign of either bridge remained and he couldn't see across the river to see if the gas station/mini-mart still stood.

"Fuck!" he was going to have to get a closer look. His pocket flashlight was woefully inadequate for the doom and gloom surrounding him from the impending twilight. He didn't know what happened when raging, flooded river met great wall of mud, but knew it couldn't be good. And people, faced with a disaster, accepted reality much better when the knowledge they had a house to return to remained. But now, oh now, those same folks, sane just ten minutes ago, would panic and freak.

"Anyone hurt?"

"Anyone missing?"

Dean heard the people rallying from within the church. The earth was now still, the initial panic was over and the human nature to survive pushed to the forefront. He jogged around the circled wall, looking for breaches or breaks but the wall remained unbroken. He was no engineer or expert, like a geologist or whoever, but the hill behind the church appeared stable, but again, what the hell did he know?

Rescuers would have to come by air. No way was anyone getting in or out by boat or vehicle. It would be earth-movers who made any progress toward them via land.

"Don't go thinking they're gonna lift me off the ground in some sling or basket Sammy." Dean grinned, rubbing the back of his head. "Never gonna happen."

At least they were all safe and sound at the church. Well, again, for the time being anyway. Gene and Will had rounded everyone up earlier, following Dean's order to get everyone out of their houses and the towns people had claimed everyone had been present or otherwise accounted for, so no one was buried under all that mud. And it was a lot of mud. Yeah, it was hard to see, but not a light remained where any house or building had previously stood.

If it turned out someone was missing and he had to go digging through all that mud in search of Great Uncle Bob or funny Cousin Sue, he was going to seriously hurt someone. Dean leaned over the wall of bags and shined his flashlight down…..so far, so good-ish. Before he had time to ponder the implication of how fast the water might reach their makeshift retaining wall, screams sounded from within the church, joined by a chorus of barking dogs and a choir of meowing cats.

"Jamie's gone!"

Dean sighed, pushing all thoughts of how to quickly reunite with Sam and the slowly but steadily encroaching water from his mind. Who the fuck was Jamie?

Jamie, he soon learned, was a seven-year old brat, ehrm, boy who, unable to locate his dog, had broken through the wall of sandbags and lit out for home. Cursing women's inability to mind their children and properly train their pets, Dean easily vaulted over the wall and began to run down the hill, shouting at the men to repair the wall where Jamie had broken through.  Pronto!

Jamie, distraught and too young to know any better, was disoriented and had no idea which way his house was – well, had been. So, he did what kids do – ran downhill. And with a dog-rescuing mission consuming his mind, nothing and no one was going to stop him.

Tired as he was, head doing its best to send him to his knees and encumbered by heavy boots, Dean finally ran the little bast...bugger down. Struggling to run through flood waters that tugged at his ankles, Jamie was caught in the field of mud debris just before the river. Dean pissed off and annoyed, didn't hesitate or take care to be gentle, he grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck and swung him off his feet.

"You kick me and I'll hang you upside down." Dean warned. He was intent on returning to the relative safety of the sandbag protected church as quickly as possible. The river, temporarily diverted by the mud, did what water always did – found the path of least resistance. Mud sucked at his feet, pulled him forward, threatened to upend his balance. The water, now finding its way around and over and through the mud, made thick quagmire. The current and flow was rebounding and they were too close to the edge of the swift current for Dean's comfort.

"Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!" the slippery kid was stronger than Dean had anticipated and fought for his freedom, for the life of his dog. "Bernard?! Bernie! BERNIE!"

"Here now! Dean, have a care!" Gene was yelling, leading the charge towards him. "He's just a boy, he didn't mean any harm!"

Dean heard the shouts of the men who followed him, calling out to Jamie. A dog barked. Thunder rumbled overhead. A woman's screams were heard above it all in the distance. Dean had neither the strength nor the stamina to dangle the kid by one hand and pulled him close, holding him with both arms. The kids panicked crying rose to screams and he didn't cease trying to get free.

They boy wanted down, wanted his dog, wanted free of the man he didn't know. He was oblivious to the dangers the water and mud presented and seeing Gene, strained from the grasp of the man's arms he didn't know, to the arms of the man he did. Relieved a catastrophe had been adverted, if only for the time being, and distracted by Gene all up in his face, Dean didn't pay as much attention to the squirming child as he should have. His mind was on the mud, the weather, the river. The slide, now over, was still a threat. The mud had forced the river in a new direction and its waters, mixed with the mud, pushed uphill and towards the church.

"Hold still!" Dean muttered, struggling to keep his feet, realizing too late he'd underestimated the kid's determination to reach his dog and they were further away from safe ground than he'd thought. Christ, the mud was moving swiftly, pushing them further from the shore. God he was tired, his arms shook...his muscles screamed...if he fell in the muck...if his head went under...     Grunting, he assumed the ten-pound mound of moving mud nipping at his heels was the presumed missing Bernard. He swept the dog out of the water by the scruff of its neck and into the arms of its young master.

"Dammit kid!" he ducked to avoid a head-butt, feeling himself dragged deeper into the muck. His four limbs were splayed; his feet searched for solid ground, his left arm strained to find a hold, his right arm cramped with the weight of a squirming, kicking kid. "Fuck!"

It wasn't water, it wasn't mud. He couldn't swim, he couldn't walk. It might as well have been quicksand. He slipped, he slid, he went down on one knee, and he failed to find a secure two-foot hold. One of the men tossed him a rope. He caught it one-handed, slid the loop over his head, and worked one arm through. It gave him no support but at least the men on firmer ground could begin pulling them out of the muck.

The mud now at his crotch, Dean found purchase with his right foot and braced his weight. The muck resisted, fighting back, it got thicker and deeper with every passing second. The water was surging, overwhelming the mud, and the muck was soon up to his waist, the water deeper, stronger, faster. The steady pull on the rope cut into his skin, did its best to sever his arm from his shoulder but pulled him closer, inch by agonizing inch, to safety.

Dean, no longer able to tolerate the yipping in his ear, sent the dog airborne, depending on the men on shore to catch it. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, digging deep for strength, relying on stamina instilled in him as a youth, Dean heaved Jamie towards the outstretched arms reaching for the boy. He was relieved of Jamie's weight just as a surge of water swept him away from the hands of the men now reaching to grasp him. No longer encumbered by the burden of the squirming, kicking boy, Dean was able to fight/swim/walk back towards the shore.

But he was tired. Muscles, after several weeks of inactivity, screamed in resistance to the continued fight he asked from them. He pushed on, but his body was weak, his head exploded and his grit and determination deserted him. His finger-tips brushed the hand grasping for him, their hands touched, he felt the secure grip on his wrist, and he gave in, allowing the strength of others to do for him what he couldn't – pull him to safety. Still, he might have made it if another surge of water hadn't broken through, overwhelming the sea of mud and completely submerging him. Tired, weak, spent, having relaxed, he was no match for the strength of the current and the last thing he felt/remembered was the skin of his armpit shredding under the violent resistance of the rope to the water.


	6. Chapter 6

If Sam ever entertained the notion he'd like to raise a kid someday, well, all he had to do to cure himself of that insanity was hire on as a camp counselor. He'd rather talk a demon out of its host then break camp, round up and herd thirteen pre-teen boys. Getting them to obey and all going the same direction at the same time at a quick pace without inciting panic was a talent Sam found he lacked – and hoped to never acquire. Nothing could be worse…..Oh God – he shuddered in horror as a thought occurred to him – it could be worse, they could be girls!

He cursed as he pulled stakes from the ground to collapse the tent. Why again, did they need to take the tents with them? Oh right, teaching kids about responsibility. Yeah, did that really matter when you know, a flood was about to overtake them?

He pulled up another stake and untied the rope. Some of the boys in the group were troopers, most were complainers, and a few were whiners. Two, who were apparently joined at the hip, for they were never apart, asked non-stop questions that had absolutely nothing to do with hiking or camping and all Sam could envision doing was holding his hand over their mouths until their ability to talk was no longer an ability they possessed. Some were athletic and knowledgeable; others couldn't tie a simple knot. Most were scared, others bold, one or two practically had to be led by the hand.

And then there was Billy.

'I can't, I won't, you can't make me, no, how come, why, my mom says, I'm cold, it's dark, I'm tired, carry me, I'm wet, I'm dirty, it's muddy, it's raining, I'm not going, my dad's bigger than you (really kid?), that path is shorter, the roads too dark (and the path is lit by what?), yadda, yadda, yadda until Sam was sorely tempted to stuff the kid into one of the large bags and wait until they reached camp to find out whether or not he'd smothered.

There'd been two counselors with the boys camping at the lake, one an adult, the other a teen-ager who thought he knew everything and really, knew nothing. At first, he'd tried to tell Sam what to do, how to do it and why it should be done that way but after Sam pulled the first stake from the ground with a bare hand, he'd wisely retreated without another word. So, that made three adults – Sam, with no patience; Rob, with too much patience; Bob, with no sense of urgency, and a know-it-all 17-year-old.

Finally, _finally,_ they were on their way. Bob and Mr. I-know-everything led the way, and Sam and Rob brought up the rear. Sam, unhappy with the look of the sky and the weather as he trudged on, seriously doubted his sanity. What the hell had possessed him…..no, no, no….bad thoughts Sam, bad, very bad! What the hell had he been thinking….yes, that was better…agreeing to walk down to the camp when Rob had invited him along? Sam snorted, slipping in the mud as he stooped to scoop up one kid or another and set him back on his feet.

Space and separation – a break – from Dean, that had been his motivation.

Had it only been a day, maybe two that Sam had vowed not to let his brother out of his sight? Yeah, sure, uh-huh, that had lasted. After their words the previous night, Sam had decided spending a few hours apart was the wise thing to do. He'd been reluctant to leave, yet eager too. He'd been cooped up too long and needed an outlet. It was just, it had taken longer than he'd thought to break camp and round up the troop, and now he'd been away from the camp longer than he'd ever planned to be when he'd left that morning.

Stupid he was not. Dean would get bored and when bored, Dean explored and when Dean explored, he found trouble: Always. And oh, he'd better be right where Sam had left him when Sam got back or so help him, Dean would regret ever…...

"It's been raining for a long time. I don't like it. Make it stop. I want it to go away."

Billy again.

"Why's it raining so hard? How come the wind doesn't stop? Do you think it's because of global warming? Melting of the icebergs? Launching rockets into space?"

And right on cue, the twins of chatter.

Sam picked up his pace. Man, it was like cats. Cats always weaved around the ankles of the person who didn't like them. He sighed, the trio were right on his heels, Billy on one side, the twins on the other. Oh, Dean was soooooo going to pay for this. He thought Sam had been difficult last night? Ha! Just wait.

"Are we there yet? How much further? I want to go home. Can we go home? Can I call my mom?"

"Can we leave? Don't you think this is a lot of rain?"

It wasn't that Sam disliked kids, he was quite fond of them, when he wasn't responsible for their well-being; when he wasn't anxious to return to his brother; when he wasn't mad at himself for leaving his brother alone in the first place; when he wasn't sick to his stomach wondering what mischief his brother had found to get in to; when Dean hadn't been laid low for several weeks with a head injury; when…

"Hey mister, you're walking too fast. Can you carry this? You in a hurry? You got anything to eat? I'm hungry? What….?"

Sam was going to reach camp, load up, pack Dean into the backseat of the car and go home. Flooded roads and structurally damaged bridges be damned. He trusted the Impala to plow through hell itself if it meant getting her…..what the fuck was that?

"Hold up!" Sam stopped and held a hand up. "What's that?"

The earth shook. Every tree, every bush, every sodden flower quivered as the ground beneath their feet heaved and shifted.

Vrrr…vrrrvrrrvrr…Vrrr. VaaRRoomMM..BOOM!

They heard it, but they couldn't see it.

"Mudslide!" Rob cried. What to do? Where to go? Run? Run where? Climb a tree? Boy Scout's Guide to Camping had never prepared him what to do in case of a mudslide! It was in the distance, off to their left and out of sight but they knew what it was just the same. The camp was on high ground – not that that at all guaranteed safety – but depending on how wide the slide was…..would they meet the mud on its way down as they continued to climb the hill?

"The camp?" Sam demanded, heart thudding, fear thick in his throat…Dean! "You think it's safe?" all instincts, all emotions, head and heart urged him to abandon the boys and run pell-mell to the camp with all the haste his long legs were capable of.

"Highest ground around, though that doesn't mean anything." Rob admitted.

"Wouldn't we see the mud? I mean, how do we know it's not coming this way?" the teen-ager asked nervously, clinging to a tree as the ground beneath their feet gradually ceased shaking.

"We don't." Rob said grimly. The earth finally settled but emitted an eerie unstable vibe. "The town though….it's that way," he pointed left, "right on the river's edge."

"But Will said the church was the shelter." Sam reminded him. "Wait, town? I thought it was just houses with a gas station."

"Yeah, a shelter from a flooding river, not a mountain of mud." Rob pointed out. "And official town or not, people still live there." he shrugged, hands on his hips. "There's a mile or so, maybe two, between us and the church….."

"Everything sounded and felt like it came from the left….the church is on the same side of the river as us and the town but we don't know where the mudslide was." the other counselor said. "I say we go forward. The mud, however much of it there is, is gonna come to a stop when it reaches the river and it doesn't appear it's coming this way."

"But the folks in town..." Rob began but he fell silent at the shaking of the other man's head. "No, you're right, these kids are our responsibility and they come first. Once we reach the camp, we can settle the boys then take the Gator down to the mini-mart, see what's going on."

"If the camp's still there." boy-toy added.

Sam didn't wait to hear more, he took off at an all-out run up the hill. He had to reach the camp, had to find his brother, had to know Dean was there, where he'd been left with strict instructions to remain – had to know he was OK! Some part of his mind, the part still able to think rationally, told him the camp remained unscathed from the mudslide, after all, Cas had sent them there! It lay directly ahead of him atop the road and no mud had come down but still…that part of his brain that was wired to worry and fret and fuss and obsess over the only reason in his life he had to….Oh God, please let him be all tucked up in his sleeping bag on his cot in the tent he so obviously hated.

Please.

***000***

'Tie off that rope!' 'Pull!' 'Hold tight!' 'Paul, you anchor!' 'Count of three!' 'Haul!' 'Put your ass into it!' 'Don't lose him!'

Right, please, oh please, don't lose me! Dean distantly heard the garbled, shouted orders as the men still on firm ground scrambled to secure the rope before the force of the current could rip it from their hands. The water had completely overtaken the mud and the river raced on its way, tugging, pulling, resisting, and fighting the efforts to pull Dean from its murky depths, reluctant to give up its prize.

Swim, he could swim. What were you suppose to do when caught in a riptide? Swim sideways? Yeah, not gonna happen. Okay, so, swimming – strike one. Tread water! Was he in water? He was! 'Cause he smelled and tasted foul water. Huh, so he was right! This is exactly what swamp water tasted like! But…..strike two, for his legs didn't want to move – make that, wouldn't, couldn't move. Could he stand? No. Alright, sit and wait for rescue. No - strike three, because his lungs were compressed against his chest or ribs or whatever internal muscle or organ they were currently being mashed into and yeah…..breathe, he couldn't! Air, he needed air…..don't panic Dean, don't panic. Thrashing will only sink you deeper…..do not panic.

He panicked.

* * *

 

 

Gene grabbed Jamie's hand and ran like hell for the church, dragging the dog-clutching kid behind him. He bellowed for blankets and warm water and bandages, cried out to anyone and everyone to make all necessary preparations needed to treat an injured man. He demanded hot coffee, asked for hot soup, begged for an area for privacy.

"Hurry!" Gene urged. "Hurry! Don't just stand there staring at me! Move! Do something!"

"Now Gene, calm down." Fred, an older gentlemen shuffled forward, wiping his hands on a towel. "Here now, calm yourself. Can't make heads nor tails what you're saying. You're babbling on worse than Jamie here. I say there Pete, move a bag or two and let them in. Bernard." he patted the matted head of the still yapping dog. "See all the trouble you caused, you bag of fleas? Now shush up you!"

"Dean fell in the river!" Gene gasped as Jamie, nodding, launched into verbal diarrhea relating the incident, often over-riding Gene's attempt to stress the importance of the story. "We're wasting time! They'll be up with him any second!"

"Dean?" Fred repeated, quirking an eyebrow in disbelief. "Fell? Into the river you say?" Pete shook his head in agreement of Fred's disbelief.

"Yes! No! I mean….he fell in it, not into it!"

"Now, really Gene, what's the difference? No matter, I just don't see the likelihood of that happening." Fred continued, plucking Bernard from Jamie's arms and rubbing the dog vigorously with a towel. "Really now, Dean is most capable of handling himself in any situation. He wouldn't go in the river…"

"He went in after Jamie!" Gene shouted, hopping in agitation. "They got him on a rope but a wave of water came, and the mud…..it pushed the current and river changed course and...HE'S IN THE RIVER!"

"Eh? What's that? He fell in the river? Well, why didn't you say so?!" Bernard was set down and forgotten as a flurry of activity blew up. "Folks! We got us a situation!" Fred bellowed. "Man down!" good God, was it a drowning? Buried alive? Lack of oxygen? "Where are those blankets? Anyone making coffee? Move it people! Someone build a fire! Get it going now!" he scurried to rouse people into action. "Break that wall! They're gonna be carrying him through. Don't just stand there gaping at me! MOVE!"

Fred's ample belly prevented him from fast movement, but his short pudgy legs put to shame those around him who were younger and more agile. He upended the first cot he came to in the hall without thought or care, dumping its contents to the floor, reclaimed the pillow and dragged it into the church. Gene was on his ass with blankets and towels which he dropped in a heap and ran off to fulfill Fred's demand for buckets of water.

Dean had set them all safely behind a well-built wall that could very well prove to be the only reason anyone made it out of this flooding, mud-sliding mountain nightmare alive. Dean was the only reason the sand-bag wall had been erected and completed in time, making a sturdy circle around the church and its attached hall. Dean was the reason people hadn't panicked, had worked fluently together and made the shelter a safe and calm place. Dean had kept the mood light, spirits up and attitudes in check.

He hadn't hesitated chasing after Jamie, the young fool; hadn't stopped to consider the risk to himself by plunging into unstable mud and an unpredictable river to save a dog. And if it hadn't been for him, folks would have still been in their houses and been buried under all that mud.

Dead.

They owed him and, by God, with the grace of good will and gratitude, they'd take care of him now that he needed their help.

* * *

It took the strength of three men, the rope – that turned out to be Dean's saving grace – tied off to a tree and Will shouting orders and encouragement, to convince the mud to give up its captive. Hands grabbed at his shirt which tore under the strain so they grabbed whatever they could get ahold of; his neck, an arm, a foot, skin, his belt, hell even his hair. He was dragged, hauled, rolled, heaved, pulled and, finally on solid ground, laid on his back. Concerned, panicked voices swam around and over his head, wafted in and out of his understanding.

"Anyone got a pulse? Is there a heartbeat? He breathing? Anyone know CPR?  Whoa, careful now! Be careful! Don't hurt him! Watch it!"

Hey, here now, yeah, I got a pulse, my heart's beating, if a little fast and I'm breathing just fine, thank you very much! No, CPR not needed and no, no mouth-to-mouth required!

Fingers, not lips, touched his, invaded his mouth, went up his nose, swiped at his eyes, dug in his ears; he was told to cough, to spit, he blew bubbles, unable to draw a deep breath. Hands thumped his chest. His head bobbed on his neck, he was sitting up, his back was pounded, and he was hugged from behind, hands fisted under his ribcage, right at his belly – aah, the Heimlich? Oh no...then what...Ow! Oh, he coughed all right, and choked and spit and spewed. Holy-Moly, what the fuck had he'd swallowed?! Eeww…gross, slime on his chin was wiped away with a cold hand.

"Dean? DEAN! You ok? You awake? Say something! Open your eyes! Talk to me! Come on, man!"

The orders came at him left and right; flew at him, not once waiting for an answer or a reaction. Great, rescued by a group of well-wishers and do-gooders with no idea what to do now that they rescued him; they really needed to stop pounding on his back and punching him in the belly.

He tried to tell them he was awake, tried to open his eyes, tried to raise a hand, tried to return the squeeze he felt when his hand was held…..nothing. Maybe he wasn't awake. Maybe he was asleep or unconscious. Hell he could even be dead, he didn't know. No, he knew. He was in too much pain to be unconscious. Both his leg and his shoulder were on fire!

"Dean? Can you hear me? Dean?"

He was cold and wet and sticky and smelled and every limb and finger and toe he had was heavy, too heavy to move. They were weighted down, dragging at him, pulling him deeper, deeper….he choked, struggling to get up, sputtering and spitting out water and mud and mold. Hands reached to aid him, supporting him while he attempted to eject the other half of the river he hadn't yet spit up.

His body was wracked with shudders, his chest heaved, he wheezed and his breath rattled in his throat as he gulped. More hands guided him, turning him to his side and laying him down, touch gentle yet firm. His mouth was invaded - again; fingers fought his tongue and poked at the back of his mouth, causing him to retch. He vomited violently, hands holding his shoulders, distant voices offering words of encouragement.

"Any injures? He hurt? Dean, you hurt? Anyone see? What we got?"

Finally, panting for his breath and before he could catch it, stomach muscles unable to eject anything more, he was lifted, jostled, juggled and carried. Will – at least, he thought it was Will, the blurry wavering image was slightly familiar – patted his cheek, thumbing open one eye then the other, palming mud from his forehead when his hair relinquished its hold on the slimy mess. Rain pelted his face, he felt it, but he couldn't see it. He couldn't hear, couldn't smell. Well, no, not true, he could smell moldy muck.

His head ached. He really wished it didn't; Sam was going to throw an epic fit.

His leg, right leg, burned and throbbed and _burned_. Oh, did it burn. He really wished it would stop; Sam would clap his hands in glee over being able to do more of the driving.

His shoulder, the left, hell his _entire_ left side, burned and itched and stung and burned. He really wished he knew why; Sam would be all up in his face and hire himself out as a human crutch.

Everything was hazy. Activity continued to whirl around him but he couldn't place the people or the events or where he was; he was detached, floating, lost, unanchored. Really, he felt like he should be doing something. What, he didn't know, but something. Yelling, issuing orders, taking charge, opening his eyes, answering questions, or asking them, he didn't know, couldn't think….

He groaned as he was roughly jostled, cried out when he was bumped and thumped around as the men carrying him strived for a firmer grip. A hand touched his right foot and that was it. His last sense, his hearing, deserted him. He could no longer make out words or voices. Every sound was muted, what he could hear – feel? – was garbled, came at him in slow motion. His head lolled, his eyes rolled and Will cursed, shouting for everyone to hurry!

He slowly gained awareness, still unable to see.  That had happened before but he'd been with Sam then and….oooommmpphh. He was rudely dropped and laid on his back. Before he could really comprehend why or where, he was being undressed, petted and pawed. Many hands reached out, lifted and held, tugged and pulled, pushed and rolled.

Ow, vocal protest, couldn't lie on his left side, his shoulder wasn't having it. Ow, vocal protest, couldn't lie on his right side, leg threw a fit.

"Sssh, you're ok. Hurts, I know." he was shushed. "Just a bit of discomfort. Easy does it." his head was lifted and laid back down on something soft and supportive. He tried to see what was going on, but everything was brown and blurry. He raised a hand to wipe at his face but it was caught, his fingers squeezed then pushed to his side. "He's pretty touchy about his right leg." and then they ignored him.

He lay helpless, trapped between awareness and unconsciousness, a state he couldn't break through. Huh, would he remember any of this? Did he want to? Probably not. His shirt, his boots, and his socks were removed, tender care being administered with his right leg. Sam was never so gentle. He was always, hurry up and see the extent of any and all injuries. Aww man not his belt, leave a man his dignity! Wow, yeah, guess not.….yikes! He stirred in protest as his jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped and pulled. Oh, hey! Watch it!

Before he could do more than growl, or you know, separate hand from wrist wielding what felt like a sponge, he was lifted and rolled and held then rolled the other way. Careful, watch the shoulder, watch the leg, watch me! Aah-oooh, warm water, yes, that felt so good! Stay away from the left arm and shoulder, not ready for that yet. Oh, thrills, back to his jeans – going lower. He didn't care if they and his boxer briefs were removed. Indeed, it would feel great to be out of the wet, heavy denim but….to come off, all the way off, they had to come off his lower hips, go on down over his thighs and his knees then his shins and really, his right leg was screaming…...or was that him?

"Okay, okay, okay! Sssh...shush, you're ok. Easy, easy does it. Sssh. I got ya, I hear ya. I'll leave 'em be for now." Fred had taken charge. "Chest. Arm. Shoulder. Haven't got a look at that leg yet. Where's that first aid kit? We need bandages! More water!" what the hell was he going to find under the jeans he'd left at Dean's knees, beneath all that mud, that had caused such a reaction? He didn't like it, didn't like it all.

And then – his patient began to shiver.

Dean heard the previously calm voice, notch up an octave in alarm. Apparently, he shook and trembled so violently, whoever was bathing, scrubbing and washing him thought he was having a seizure. Maybe he was, because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop.

More movement, frantic activity, a flurry of motion, different voices. His faced was bathed repeatedly with a soft cloth and warm water and his vision was improving. No stiff, scratchy sponge for his cheeks, and thankful for it he was, for his face stung like a bad sunburn.

His heart galloped, ran amuck, thudded, seized, stole his breath and galloped some more. Ow. Man, it hurt to breathe, hurt to swallow, hurt to lick his lips, hurt to move his tongue. Pant, lick, bite. Pant, lick, bite. Pant, lick, bite. Pant, pant, pant….gasp, pant, pant, pant.

What was wrong with him? Had he eaten mud? How much water had he swallowed? Was there muck _still_ in his lungs? Had his brain been deprived of oxygen? If so, for how long? He wanted a drink, how was he supposed to make them understand he wanted something to drink? And who the hell were they anyway? Whoever they were, they needed to learn to speak complete sentences, 'cause he only understood every other word or so.

'get him clean' 'all of him' 'disease' 'bacteria' 'infection' 'bleeding' 'drowning' 'he's hurting' 'watch his arm' 'don't move his leg' 'gotta get those pants off' 'more clean water'

Who were they talking about? Him? He frowned. Hadn't that happened to him before? The loss of ability to hear complete sentences? Just recently? With…with, with what's her name? Another frown, what was her name? Did it matter? But oh, who cared? He was cold, so cold he couldn't stop his teeth from chattering. And he hurt…everywhere! Mostly his arm, no his shoulder, no his chest, no, where they all met – yes, his armpit, but….um, ow, his leg wasn't feeling too good either. He still shivered and shook and trembled and panted and squirmed and gasped and oh-oh, he was going to be sick.  He wanted to roll over, tried, couldn't. He gagged. On bile, on spit, from pain.

"Easy. Easy." he was sat up, his head gently held over a pail until he was done attempting to heave his belly button up to greet his tongue. "Quickly now." Fred said to someone, rubbing Dean's head with a towel, wiping his ears. "We need to get him warm. We'll worry about mud between his toes later."

Ok, okay, whew! Well, alrighty then, all was good. He was no longer submerged underwater in stinky mud. Wouldn't hurt to rest for a bit, just for a little while, would it? He was in good hands, being taken care of, and if all they were worried about were his dirty toes, there wasn't a thing for him to do except sleep. Let go Dean, just let go….nothing for you to do…..

"How's he doing?" Will and Gene shooed everyone else away from the cot that was set up in the corner of the church, not the hall, for privacy. "Coffee?"

"In a minute." Fred said. "Need to finish up here first. He hasn't really come around yet and we haven't gotten him outta his pants to get a good look at the rest of him." Fred slid a hand under Dean's head and supported its weight while he held a cup to his lips. "Thirsty there son? Mmm? Take a drink, that's it."

"Gotta treat that rope burn. Shredded his skin, flayed it." Gene said. "Why's he shaking? Should he be shaking? He shouldn't be shaking. Make him stop shaking."

Yeah, no shit, thought Fred. "Trying Gene. Gotta warm him up, but gotta get these pants off him first. He's not happy about his leg being touched, need to find out why."

"You sure it's his leg he's fussing over and not, you know, being naked?" Gene asked. "No man wants…"

"I'm sure." Fred said firmly, but he laid a blanket over Dean anyway. "God knows what was in that water."

"What we looking at? Gotta take care of that nasty rope burn there. Here, we'll help." Gene said. "Grap a leg Will, count of three, pull."

"NO!" Fred yelped. "DON'T DO THAT!"

"AAUGGHRRHHH!" Dean jerked, hands flailing, legs kicking as his head came off the pillow and he bucked against the pull of denim dragging on his skin.

"Oh shit." Fred muttered, staring in horror at the object – wood? metal? rock? bone? - protruding from Dean's right shin, closer to his ankle than his knee. "Aww, hell." he slowly stood up, uttering curses, sighing in relief when Dean went limp.

What the hell were they going to do now?

"That can't be good." Gene breathed. "That's gotta hurt but he's gonna be ok, right? We got him in time, right? That leg, it's the worst, right? Is it broken? Is that bone? I'm going to be sick."

"I'm a butcher Gene, not a man of medicine." but Fred adjusted his glasses, not that doing so did any good, and scooted his chair closer to the cot and sat back down. "It's not bone."

"Yeah, yeah, but you know all about veins and muscles and tendons." Gene muttered. "That's gotta hurt."

"How do you know? That's a lot of mud and slime and blood, you can't really see." Will asked. "What do you need? You need pain medicine? We have a first aid kit and I'm sure some of the ladies have aspirin or ibuprofen in their purse."

"If his leg were broken, his foot would be dangling." Fred peered closer. Yeah, Dean was going to need something a hell of a lot stronger then aspirin. "Just wonder how deep."

"Pick his leg up and look." Gene suggested. He still held Dean's jeans and he searched for the hole in the leg. "Only one hole, it didn't tear through the back."

"Guess that's good." Fred sighed. "Figure it has to be stuck in there fairly deep or all the jostling getting him out of the mud and carrying him up here would have dislodged it." he wiped his hands on a towel, then surveyed the remaining pile of clean ones. "Need hot water Will, lots of it. More towels, bandages, cotton pads, antiseptic wash, hell, just bring me the entire first aid kit and anything anyone has in way of supplies. This ain't gonna be pretty."

***000***

Sam reached the cabin first, the group lagging far behind. Relieved to find it still standing, he raced past and behind it, charging into the tent he was sharing with his brother. Finding it empty, irrationally looking under both cots and tossing the sleeping bags to the floor, he ran back to the cabin. He didn't knock, just threw the door open. It bounced off the wall with a crack, splintering from its frame from sheer force but no one was there to protest. Terror topping anger, alarm warring with fear, he ran to the kitchen tent, then the latrine tent, then the first aid tent. He checked the car, ran in one direction then another, circling every tent in the camp.

"DEAN! DEAN! DAMMIT, ANSWER ME! DEAN!"

By the time Rob reached camp, the boys and the other two counselors still climbing the hill, Sam had the Asian cook by the neck, against the wall with his wood spoon jabbed against his jugular, demanding he speak English and tell him where the fuck his brother was.

"Sam! Hey, hey Sam! Man, hey!" Rob tugged on Sam's arm holding the spoon. "What are you doing? You can't stab him with the handle of a wood spoon. Now, let him go! Let. Him. Go."

"I want to know where my brother is and he won't' tell me. But he will!" he squeezed and the man squeaked.

"Sam! Calm down, let him go. He doesn't speak any English."

"He'd better learn." Sam threatened. "Make him understand me."

"Just let him go. Soon as the boys get here, Quon can translate. Okay? I'm sure your brother isn't far. Your car's here, right?"

Rob succeeded in convincing Sam to release the cook, but failed to convince him to let the man out of his sight. They stood glaring at one another from opposite sides of a row of tables.

By the time the rest of the troop arrived, Sam was pacing, hands in his hair, muttering dire consequences to a certain wingless angel who had better haul ass to buckfuck, Nebraska, wave a hand, part water and return Dean to the protection and care of Sam, or else.

As soon as the troop gathered in the kitchen tent, the largest, Sam singled out the only Asian boy and dragged him by his sodden tie over to the cook.

"Ask him where my brother is." Sam ordered. He didn't care if he frightened the boy, he wanted answers and he wanted them now. If he had to hang the kid upside down and put a gun to the cook's head, he was capable of doing so.

Quon looked at Rob who spoke more calmly and explained the situation and soon, boy and cook were in animated discussion. Hands waved, heads nodded, arms swung and Sam's patience disappeared completely.

"What is he saying? Where's Dean? Dammit, someone talk to me!"

"Your brother rode with Will to the mini-mart in the motor cart, they haven't returned and Shin hasn't been able to raise them on the two-way radio." Quon said quickly. "No one has come up to the camp from town either.

"Has Shin gone down to see if the town is..." Rob glanced at Sam. "Uh, still there?"

Quon translated the question and Shin shook his head. "No."

Sam bolted for the door, Rob on his heels. He didn't need to ask where the worried younger man was going. Just wondered whether he intended to walk or take his car.

He did neither, he ran.


	7. Chapter 7

He was on a rollercoaster and he wanted off.

A person wasn't meant to hang upside down or go backwards, twisting and turning while suspended in a metal car, attached to a track by some fandangle gidget-gadget and secured by a questionable flimsy harness while going sixty miles an hour, legs dangling helplessly. Up, down, around. Back, around, up, down. God, it was enough to make him cast up his accounts.

Eh?

He squirmed, stomach threatening rebellion, hollering he wanted off the ride, yelling for it to stop. It didn't, it went faster. Wow, oh wow, the fucking seatbelt held him tight, the g-force so strong, it pinned his head to the seat and he couldn't lift it. But, mmmm, it was the safety harness that was killing him; so tight across his chest it cut into his arm and made his shoulder ache. **Yow-ow**! Yeah, he didn't like that very much. But oh, oh that was nothing compared to his foot….no his ankle. Wait, no his calf? His shin? Hell, his whole damn leg. Yeah, _that_ was no mere ow! Was it stuck? Caught on a wire? The force on his shoulder pulled opposite the force on his leg and he was sure he was being drawn and quartered.

Eh?

And he was hot, so hot he could feel the heat. Hot, like the feeling of heat in your face when you opened the oven door, only not his face, his shoulder and his chest, even his leg. In fact, so hot he could feel the lick of flames against his skin. At first, it felt good and he gravitated towards the source. He'd been so cold and damp and wet that he hadn't been able to stop shivering but no more. Now, now it was too much – too hot – and he began to squirm in an attempt to distant himself from the uncomfortable building heat.

"Count of three. You pull and…"

"You sure that knife is hot enough? How hot should it be? I don't think it's hot enough. You hesitated and now it's cooled off, don't you think you should put it back in the fire?"

"I do that and I'll never get the nerve up again. I'm about to burn a man here Gene."

Eh?

He really needed to stop reading old western paperback novels purchased for a nickel at some book sale. Hot knife? Who had a hot knife? Why? Well, he knew of several reasons a man might have need for a hot knife but none applied to him. Oh, but it was hard to think, hard to concentrate, for he really did feel as though he were being pulled apart and no matter how much he howled and yowled and carried on, nothing distracted him from his misery and pain. Well, no, that was a lie. He was distracted – by voices and words and the dawning realization over what those words meant.

He felt warm, his skin pricked and tingled, and it wasn't right. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. It was, was as if…...wait, no story book news here...burn a man? Surely, not with a hot knife?

Fred's wrist was caught in a firm grip and twisted, the knife – now, no longer glowing red-hot – forced into an angle to the floor.

"Drop it." Dean rasped, struggling to gain control of his conscious thought and bring understanding to the situation. "You. Are. Not. Burning. My. Skin. With. A. Hot. Blade." he swallowed hard, on fear, on dread, on bile, on river water and mud. "Forget. It."

"Well, hello there." Fred greeted jovially. He set the knife on the stone floor carefully and used the toe of his boot to push it put of sight under the cot, nearly weeping with relief he hadn't had to use it. "Welcome back. Good of you to rejoin us. Though, you weren't really out all that long." the blurred image wavered and hovered over him and Dean let his eyes close, feeling nauseated. "Afraid I ain't much up on first aiding. Though, you want it sliced and diced, cubed and rounded off, I'm your man." he gave Dean a rueful grin. "Sad to say though, I'm the best we got here."

"What happened?" he pushed at his hair, a heavy lump on his forehead, he really needed a haircut. "Argh." he shifted uneasily. "Owww!" slice and dice what? Him? Not gonna happen.

"Now, you just relax and take it easy." Fred patted his shoulder. "Although, we should probably have a talk about your leg."

Like, why it's numb? "The kid?" he said instead, licking his lips, god, they tasted awful. Were they even his? "Dog?" duh, Dean, lips aren't detachable or interchangeable. Shit, he couldn't think clearly; who else's would they be?

"Both safe and sound and back under the watchful eye of his Momma." Fred assured him. "Now, how are you feeling?"

His head was supported by a cool hand on the back of his neck and a cup was held to his lips. He slurped and swallowed, calmed by the familiar routine of sipping and swallowing and re-opened his eyes, allowing them time to focus. He immediately wished he hadn't, for with the welcoming relief of clear sight came – pain. Pain and discomfort and unease and fear and panic. He winced, lip curling and he promptly closed his eyes.

Yeah, Dean thought, riding a wave of pain, back with his Momma where the little rug-rat should have been in the first place. "What happened?"

"Don't you remember?"

Remember? Oh. Yeah, let's see; fill a bag with sand, lift it, carry it, stack it until finally – a wall was built. And he'd been exhausted too. Then, maybe not in this order, there'd been a kid, a dog, a river, mud, a mudslide, a flood. Rii—gghh—tttt, yeah, he'd drowned. Oh, and then he'd been buried in mud and – oh, hello there rollercoaster stomach. Not gonna stay where you belong, are you?

"How you doing? Doing ok?" Fred eyed Dean warily, as the younger man swallowed repeatedly, face turning a pale grey. "Water going to stay down? No? Alright, here, just ease to your right, that's it, no, don't turn over, right shoulder only, lift your head, that's good, pail right there on the floor for you."

"Ow!" Dean grunted, finally flopping onto his back. "Who're you?"

"Fred." came the reply with the offer of more water which Dean greedily drank. What, like he hadn't inhaled half a muddy river? "What do you remember? Anything?"

He'd been dragged by his armpit – aah – behind a horse, hadn't he? Did he still have his arm? He raised his head, hunched a shoulder, waggled a finger, then another and hissed through his teeth. Oh yeah, yup, both arms still attached, though he kinda thought maybe if the left one weren't, he just might be okay with that. Then it might not hurt quite so much.

"Hey, hey…none of that now. No rubbing." a hand touched his shoulder, stilled any further attempted movement and patted his arm. "Little raw is all, only thing missing is a bit of skin."

 _Missing_ a bit of skin? Wouldn't it be more accurate to say, a bit _was left_? For it felt like he'd been skinned alive. And was he speaking out loud and didn't know it? Or was he communicating with gestures and his eyes and not aware of it? Who was this dude Fred again? Whoever he was, he seemed quite adept at understanding Dean. Fred, Fred, Fred….he didn't know anyone named Fred, well, he might, but no, no one close to him.  Dammit, why didn't he remember who this Fred dude was? Or why he was where he was? Sam had left him…..ooohhhh. Sam. Ruh-roh.

"Uh….aah….ummm….say what?" Dean blinked, foul taste on his tongue and in his mouth making his stomach churn.

"Tug-of-war." Fred was saying. "River versus man." he spread his hands in apology. "Man won, but at a cost to you, I'm afraid." he offered more water. "Got your back too."

What got his back?

Bam! Dean grunted under the force of the mental slap and his head reeled with memories. He'd rode to town in a buggy-like motorized golf cart with…..with….what was his name? Old guy, dressed like a boy scout…Will! Yes! And then, a store where he'd helped load a wagon, crossed over a river on a flooded bridge, hiked up a hill humping a cumbersome wagon to a church….yes! They'd sandbagged the church! And they'd finished the wall and proud of it he was, for it'd been a mighty fine job he'd done.

"My wall?" he rubbed his forehead. He was obviously still forgetting a lot.

"Still standing and holding firm." Fred beamed. "Job well done son, well done indeed. Can't thank you enough."

Well then, his job here was done. So why was he lollygagging around, napping on a comfy cot? He had to get back to the camp and be in that stupid tent, right where he'd been left, when Sam returned. He paused, tent? What was he doing, staying in a tent? Ooooh, more water, yes, yes, he was still thirsty, good, oh-so-good.

"Gotta get back to the camp." he pushed the cup and the hand holding it away, sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "Sammy…see, I'd better be…" he stood up, searching his pockets for car keys. "Uh? Where are my car keys?"

"You're what?" Fred asked dubiously.

Well, at least in his mind, he had stood up and spoke. He was also fully dressed, fit and fine, in command of his body and all his limbs and able to either appease Sam or kick his ass for being such a worry-wart. No pain, no heat, no sore throat, no aching chest, no burning shoulder, no numb foot, lungs normal sized, no headache, no blurry vision, no nothing.

Reality? Well, in reality, he did no more than weakly push at the arm holding the cup with two of his fingers on his uncooperative right hand. Now that there was just weird. If he remembered correctly, and he was sure he did, it'd been his left arm torn from its socket by the brutal – yes, brutal, for he clearly remembered how _that_ had felt – pull of the rope dragging him across the ground. So, why wasn't his right arm being obedient and obeying his commands?

Oh well, he didn't need two hands to walk, he needed two feet and two feet he had, so…...up! Up and at 'em! Get your ass moving before it gets kicked into gear for you! He moved his feet, but they didn't move in tandem. He pulled his left leg up so his foot rested flat on the cot, but his right didn't move. Not even a toe twitched. When he finally convinced it to mimic the movement his left leg had performed, prepared to hit the ground running, he promptly passed out.

"Well." Gene huffed. "That can't be good."

Gee, you think? Fred thought unkindly but he didn't show any outward emotion, attention focused solely on Dean.

"Dean? I need you to wake up. Can you do that for me? Dean?" his cheeks were patted, and his chin was wiped repeatedly with something scratchy. "Dean? Hey now, come back to me."

No. No, I don't want to wake up. So shove it up your ass Sammy ole boy, 'cause, nope, not gonna do it. Not even for you. I'm comfy-cozy right here in this painless veil of the unknown, where I don't have to worry about anything or anyone, so I'm not gonna do nuthin' I don't wanna. And nothing you say or do can make me!

"Dean?  Hello? Can you hear me?  Dean?"

Well, except that...a voice he didn't know; a touch that was hesitant and awkward and unfamiliar; him, blind and unable to move, restrained and alone and vulnerable. Oh. Yeah, no, that would do it.

"Sam?" he panicked, his face was wet and no matter how many times he raised his arm to wipe his face, it remained wet. "Stop it." he muttered irritably. "Don't."

"Here now, easy, take it easy." went the strange voice. "That's it, you're okay. Easy does it, okay?"

Feeling no threat, he let his eyes flutter, a yellow haze penetrating the dimness, searching for the owner of that voice. The same voice he'd been hearing, the voice he couldn't see.

"There, that better?"

Was what better? He still couldn't see, was still hot, his face was still wet, his chest still hurt, his mouth still tasted awful, he still didn't know what the fuck was going on!

"SAM!"

"Open your eyes. You're ok Dean, just relax and wake up."

What? His eyes were open! Weren't they? No? Oh well. "Fire…." he groaned, trying to raise first his left, then his right hand and wipe at his face. "Hot…fire!"

"There's no fire, you're just a mite warm is all. No, your hands are fine, though that's a nasty scar there on your arm. Open your eyes and you'll see. You thirsty? Want some more water? Here we go, that's it." Fred said, holding the cup and once again supporting Dean's head. "Enough water then, okay? So now, need you to stay still and be with it enough to talk to me. How much do you know about serious injury?" he asked after several minutes, having given Dean time to calm down and wake up.

"Why?" he rasped, throat and chest sore and achy. Uh, _yeah,_ he'd _drowned_. "Whose….who's been…..who's hurt?" scar? What scar? He didn't have any visible scars…..well, not bad ones anyway. Well, he did, but not really noticeable to the naked, inexperienced eye. Well, his left arm was injured so maybe….but no, no, Fred was on his right side and he didn't have…..oh, the mark? Yeah, he supposed it could resemble a scar.

'"You are." Gene popped up. "The ladies want to know if you want something to eat. They have soup and…"

"Gene, he's not going to eat anything for a while." Fred sighed.

"No, I'm ok." Dean insisted, coughing to clear his throat. Wow, okay, yeah that failed. Throat still sore, chest still hurt. Least he could breathe – oh, be honest Dean, you can barely _wheeze!_ Okay, **FINE!** He could _wheeze_ with only a slight rattle, geesch, and he wasn't coughing up and spewing out water or mud or mold anymore. He shuddered with a pitiful moan at the memory of choking and gagging, numerous hands pummeling and pushing at his belly in an ill-advised attempt to help him. So, why was he flat on his back on a cot? He tried to sit up, made it to his elbows, his left arm said 'see ya' and he was once again sprawled flat on his back. He felt a draft. What the…? "My, uh, clothes? I'm not wearing…why….?" he paused, tilted his chin into his chest, looked down, saw his toes and used a thumb to lift the blanket from where it'd hitched up against his chest. "I'm naked?" he gasped, aghast. "Get me my clothes!" he roared in indignation. Okay, squeaked was more like it, but still…..a man had his dignity!

"Yeah, couldn't leave you in your clothes with all that mud still on 'em." Fred explained simply. "Once we get you all cleaned up, we'll find something for you to wear, don't you worry none."

"Clean me up? I'm dirty?" he tugged at the blanket to cover himself, allowing Fred to lend a hand. "Wait, I'm hurt?" God, it hurt to breathe deep enough to talk. To his ears, he sounded just fine, but judging by the sympathetic looks on the faces of Mr. One-Arm and the man named Fred, he must not be speaking as well as he thought he was.

"Don't you remember?" Gene asked. "See, Jamie ran after Bernard and you chased him down and…"

"Say, Gene, why don't you go see if maybe Gloria has some juice or something." Fred suggested. "He just woke up, likely his thoughts are addled and you nattering on in his ear ain't helping him sort things out none. Off with you now or you're likely to spook him."

Spook me? "Will?" Dean licked his lip, crossing his left arm over his belly and hugging it against himself with his right arm. "He was with me, right?"

"I'm right here Dean." Will was standing behind Fred. "You just relax, we'll have you fixed up in no time."

Uh-hum. Right. Yeah, see, no. His armpit was on fire! All hair singed off. His shoulder was screaming and the skin across his chest stung, as did his face and he wondered if he had a bad sunburn.

"You want some ice?" Will offered. "We got some, not a lot but the ladies are willing to part with what they have if it'll help you."

Ice? For a sunburn? What new hell was this? What kind of ass-backwards, hill-billy yokels had Sam stranded him with? Oh-ye-gawds-this-couldn't-be-his-life.

"I got the bleeding stopped. Just, wrapped towels around your leg." Fred offered lamely. "The rope burn stopped oozing on its own but I haven't attempted to treat it yet."

"We took a vote." Will said. "Decided to pull it out and be ready in case there was heavy bleeding."

"We have a first aid kit, but…." Fred shrugged. "I think you're a bit beyond Bactine and a Band-Aid, you know?" he smiled apologetically. "Sorry."

"Uh, what?" Dean let his head plop back onto the pillow. Great, so not only did they not know how to save a man from drowning, they had no idea how to properly treat an injury. "Treat what?" pause, "Pull what out?" boy he was shaky and disoriented.

"You have a rather nasty rope burn." Fred explained. "Under your arm and across your chest, missed your neck the way you put the rope over your head. They pulled you out by it."

Right. No wonder his shoulder felt like he'd been dragged behind a horse, he'd been pulled out of a raging river! Same dif! But this amount of pain from a rope burn? Really? Huh. No, he refused to believe it. Not some pansy-ass rope burn. Psshh…..

"Help me sit up." Dean ordered. Refreshed by the water and gaining both strength and clarity the longer he was awake, he was beginning to make sense of what was going on. "Where's that first aid kit? Lemme see it and get me a mirror."

"Well…." Fred hedged. "Alright." he finally conceded. "But you stay put. Don't go trying to get up."

No fear of that, Dean thought, finally upright and using the blanket to mop the heavy sweat from his face. Jeeze-Louweeze, he was light-headed and dizzy. He slowly moved his arm away from his body and attempted to lift it over his head. He accomplished the motion with help from Fred, a whine or two and some whimpering. Holy moly, again, all this pain from a rope burn? Not likely. Was his shoulder dislocated? Didn't feel like it, not the same kind of pain.

Dean took the mirror. Oh, ow! He hissed, sucking air through clenched teeth; the 'rope burn' across his chest and shoulder was red, raw, puffy and seeping. Like broken open blisters. Just looking in the mirror made it hurt worse. And while the slice of raw, open skin across his chest and shoulder wasn't exactly bleeding, it was spotty with blood, both dried and fresh. And his armpit…oh man! Would the hair ever grow back? He couldn't see across his back, but yeah, he bet the rope wound still oozed and seeped and wasn't any cleaner than the one he could see. Great, just open a breeding ground for infection and invite every known bacteria right on over, why don't you, Dean. He said nothing, set the mirror down and gestured for the first aid kit to be set in his lap.

Hey, his toes were cold. He glanced down at his feet with a distracted frown. Something there wasn't right either.

"This it? This all you got?" Dean said in disgust, wistfully thinking of the first aid kit in the trunk of the Impala with some mighty fine pain meds. He set aside pads of square gauze, rolls of white net bandages, rolls of water-proof first aid tape, a tube of antibiotic cream and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Not the best, but would certainly do. For a rope burn anyway. "Scissors? Nail clippers?"

"We have art supplies for the children in the church nursery." Will said helpfully but Dean shook his head. Plastic, blunt toy scissors wouldn't snip shredded skin from the torn edges of a rope burn or broken open blisters, for the lack of anything better to call the…well, wound. "No. Well, okay, let me go ask the ladies. Never ceases to amaze me what women can pull out of the smallest pocketbook."

"Mabel said to get him to drink this." Gene was back, bottle of some kind of juice in his hand. "How's he doing?"

"I'm good." Dean set the kit aside and arranged the supplies he'd selected on the cot next to his hip. "I want my clothes back."

"Oh, sure, let me go find something for you to wear." Gene bobbed his head and went off.

"Gonna need a lot of hot water." Dean said briskly, rubbing his good hand across his face. "Clean soft cloths, nothing scratchy and NO sponges!" he waited for Fred's nod of understanding and agreement. "Okay, good, first you clean with hot water, get all the mud and mold and bits of rope fibers out. Then you snip, then you clean again with more hot water – fresh, then douse with the peroxide, apply the cream, don't be stingy either, then tape a pad over the worst spots. We'll see about a bandage later. Then, once you find my pants, I'll…" he saw Fred shaking his head. "What?" he asked impatiently.

"Snip?" Fred repeated doubtfully. "Snip? You mean, snip _your skin_?"

"Uh, yeah. You said you can slice and dice, well, here you go, snip and clip." Dean growled. "You're shaking your head, why are you shaking your head? Don't shake your head. I can get my chest and maybe my shoulder, but not under my arm or my back."

"Rescue crews will…" Fred began but now it was Dean who was shaking his head.

"Infection." Dean stressed. "Is something I can't fight on my own. God knows what was in that mud and now imbedded in me."

Fred held a hand up. "Stop, just stop." he didn't add infection wasn't the only immediate risk. Loss of blood just might top it.

"Don't suppose there's any whisky around?" Dean asked hopefully.

"This is a church!" Gene exclaimed. "There are no spirits on the premises."

So, not a Catholic Church then, bummer, Dean thought sadly, for at that moment, he would have gladly accepted Sacramental wine.

"Say, uh, Dean." Fred was waving his hands about. "Something we gotta talk about before we tackle your chest and shoulder." he reached for the blanket but Dean held firm.

"Like what?" Dean heaved impatiently. It really was time to lie back down now. "We really don't have time to waste. The longer it goes without being cleaned and treated with antiseptic…." he lost the tug-of-war with Fred over the blanket. " _What-the-fuck-is-that_?!" he yelped. "HOLY SHIT!"

That pain in his chest? His shoulder? His armpit? Yeah, minor league. It no longer existed. Was nothing compared to the horror he stared at after Fred flipped the blanket off his leg. Ooh-ho, his leg was no longer numb now, nuh-huh. Nope, once seen, it let loose. Pain took delight in dancing, flinging and flopping around, it was frreeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Weeeee….eeeeeeee…..weeeeee...heeheeheee!

"Don't know what to do about that." Fred confessed.

Dean's eyes rolled, and his breath hitched. He'd been impaled through the foot before and he remembered the pain – no, the agony – that had accompanied the injury. So, that explained the hot knife. They'd meant to yank out whatever was sticking out of his leg and cauterize the wound. Oooooooooohhhhhhh GGG-aaawww-dddddd.

Now that he knew about their well-meant but ill-advised plan, now that he knew something was jammed into his shin, and that it had to come out - because, hello, infection - now that he knew they had no idea what to do about it, and he was going to have to help them, there was no denying the pain.

His last conscious thought was: Good God, did he have to do everything himself?

***000***

"Hey, wait a minute! Hold up!" Don called until Sam finally pulled up and waited in the middle of the road with Rob for Don to catch up. "Rob! Where are you going? You can't just leave! We have the kids to take care of!"

"Go back with him." Sam ordered Rob, paying Don no attention. "See if you can get out on your cell or on the CB I saw in the cabin with Will. Get some help up here."

"Are you going to the store? We should take the kids. The church is the highest ground and we'll be safest there." Don panted. "They're already packed up, shouldn't take long to….."

"NO! No way!" Sam exclaimed. "You keep those kids up there in that camp, do you understand me?" he voice rose to a shout. "Are you out of your mind? We have no idea what we're going to find!"

"Now, see here." Don blustered. "Something happened up there in the mountain, and we don't know for sure what, so…"

"Don't make me teach you a lesson. You won't like it if you do." Sam threatened, itching to continue running.

"Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?"

"Damn right." he was so impatient, he was dancing. "Stay out of my way."

"I don't know who you are, who you think you are, but you are no one to give me orders, take charge of this situation or take responsibility for these kids."

"I'm only going to say this once, so you hear me." Sam went nose to nose with Don. "Those kids are safe at the camp, you take them from there and I'm forced to choose, it won't be you or that troop. Am I clear?"

"No." Don didn't back down. "No, you're not. You're not clear at all."

"Sam, hey man, come on. Chill out." Rob said uneasily. "I'm sure your brother's fine up at the church."

"You don't understand." Sam stated grimly. "It's not Dean I'm worried about, it's what he's capable of doing if threatened or...badly hurt." he took a breath, stabbing a finger at Don's chest. "Not. One. Kid." he turned away before he ended up punching Don and saddling himself with the responsibility of a troop of Scouts.

"HEY, Sam! Come on, there's no reason - none at all - to believe your brother's even hurt, let alone, badly! Sam!" Rob started after Sam who was once again off and running. He didn't know why he followed Sam, his place was with Don and the troop, but follow Sam, he did.

He finally caught up to Sam at the gas station, following him over to the mini-mart where he easily let himself in. "What are you looking for? No one's here."

Yeah, neither's anything else, Sam thought as he poked and walked around. "The camp is on this side of the river but the church and town are on the other side, right?"

"Yeah, see the river winds its way…."

Sam didn't care how the fucking river twisted and turned, the mini-mart/gas station was empty, shelves bare of pre-packaged snacks and cups and canisters of sugar and powdered creamer. No bottled water or juice either. Someone had gathered supplies and taken them somewhere.

"Where's the church?" he interrupted. "Can you walk there from here?"

"Sure, sure, but…." Rob waved a hand impatiently. "It's over the river and through the woods and up the hill. I don't think the bridge….."

"Show me." Sam demanded, on his way out the door, not waiting to see if Rob chose to follow.

"Sam, I don't…" Rob skipped a step or two to catch up to him. "I doubt you can cross the bridge."

"We haven't seen any mud." Sam seethed. "Something, somewhere gave way and came down. No one is here. Show me the town and the church." knowing Dean, and boy did he know Dean, his brother would have gone to help. Help with what, was the question. Had he gone before or after the suspected mud slide? Hum, that was a question he should have asked the cook. Well, too late now.

"Yeah, but…see the town would have evacuated to the church. It's the shelter whenever they expect a flood."

"And that's often?" Sam questioned, mind whirling and racing. "The expectation of a flood?"

"Often enough the National Guard has a sand pile to make bags to protect the church."

"So, this way?" he strode down the road, instinctively heading to the river, coming up short when under his very feet the road gave way to mushy mud that sucked at his boots with an ominous warning not to go any further. Were it just a river, Sam would, despite its current, attempt to swim across, but it wasn't just water. It was dirt and debris, slightly moving mud that was unstable, unsettled and of unknown depths.

"Bridge is – was – right there." Rob pointed. "Foot bridge there and there…..there's where the houses should be."

"Should be?"

Rob swallowed. "So, it was a mud slide."

"And the church?"

Rob shook his head. "You can't see it from the road."

"So, there's no way of knowing whether or not the mud slide took it out." buried it, Sam thought, and everyone in it.

"No." Rob said hoarsely.


	8. Chapter 8

"He moved his finger."

"He did not. It was his eye. His eye fluttered."

"I didn't see that."

"See! There! That, did you see that?"

"You're a blind old bat!"

"You should get him to drink. He needs to drink. If he doesn't get something to drink, he'll dehydrate."

"He needs to eat. I should make him something to eat."

"Drinking lots of fluids is more important than eating in blood loss."

"Well, he hasn't lost any yet."

"And you think he won't?"

"Do you think he fainted?"

"Or passed out from the pain. Oh, the poor dear."

Dear God, where was he? Eat, drink and not be merry? Yikes! Dean heard the myriad of voices, if not all the words and decided he wanted no part of anyone. Having made that decision, he wished the voices and the people they belonged to far away. He didn't wish them harm, just wished them far away from him. Good God, could they not shut up and leave a man to, you know, die in peace?

"He's dirty Fred, why is he still dirty? Have you not bathed a baby before?"

"Of course he has Millie, don't be daft."

"Who are you calling daft, you old biddy."

"Biddy!? Now see here, you blind bat!"

"Look at that! See all that mud? He's covered in it. It's filth! Germs and bacteria and….."

Apparently not.

"STOP!" Dean croaked hoarsely yet with enough authority the voices fell quiet and an uncomfortable silence settled around him. "God." he swallowed. "Just….shuddup."

"Everyone out!" Fred shooed the crowd away from the cot. "Yes, yes, go heat some soup. Use the camp stove, it runs on propane. Gene, go help the ladies with the stove. Out! Out, I say. Be gone."

"Where'd…..you…..go? Dean made the simple question an accusation and Fred gave him a sheepish grin. "….let everyone…..in?"

"Raining out, we need the fire to heat water."

Yeah, that explained nothing.

"Here, now, you just take it easy." Fred fussed, touching Dean's cheek, patting his shoulder, fluffing the blanket. "You've had quite the time of it, so you just take a moment and be still."

Right, his arm was hurt. Oh, and don't forget the leg. But his arm….wow, what'd he do to it again? Rope burn, someone had said. Nah, nothing that silly. He shifted his weight off his right hip, biting his lip to keep the wince from becoming a groan. Didn't feel like it was silly. _It fucking hurt!_

"Oh, you want to sit up? Well, I suppose you can." Fred's tone held doubt and maybe disapproval but he helped Dean achieve his goal. "See? We moved you closer to the wall, so you can rest against it."

Sure. Whatever.

"Passed right out, you did." Fred paused. "Didn't take you for the squeamish sort but you took one look at your leg and fainted like…eh, you fainted." he finished lamely.

Like a girl? That what you were gonna say, old man? Dean thought uncharitably. Good thing you didn't say it, Freddy old boy. Drop dead Fred. Hadn't that been an 80's movie? Better than Freddy Krueger. Hee-hee….ooohhhhhh. He groaned, pin-pricks of pain stung his chest and the back of his shoulder. Oooooh….owww…mmmoooaannnnn.

"Easy there son, no hurry. Just relax, watch your leg."

"Yeah." Dean said when he trusted his voice not to moan or whine. Right, his leg. What had Fred said? He'd stopped the bleeding and wrapped a towel around it? Well, the towel was gone and the sight was gruesome. "I….was impaled…through my foot once and another time, I was stabbed in the calf with a stick." same leg too, but opposite foot, if he remembered correctly, and he wasn't so sure he did. "Did….I break it?"

"Dangers of the job, huh?"

If only the old man knew the truth.

"No, neither your leg nor your ankle." Fred continued, rubbing his hands together. "Here, you want a drink? Just water."

"Meh." Dean took the plastic bottle, the top already off. He hadn't seen any tweezers in the first aid kit…oh….no, wait, yes he had; those worthless blue plastic ones. "How….how much time?"

"What's that?"

"How long, since…." huh, he tried to think, wanted to think, but yeah….couldn't do it. "The river? It flood? Has the water reached the wall?"

"Yes, see the mud pushed the river in a different direction, but…"

"Mud? What mud?" Dean laid his head against the wall and let his mind wander, waiting to see what it collected on its meandering stroll. "Oh. That mud." yeah, he'd bathed in it; memo to all women – now hear this – cold mud bath….not therapeutic. "I, uh, didn't hit my head, did I?"

"Not that we know of and we checked you over pretty good." Fred grinned. "Though, apparently not to the ladies satisfaction. They think you're still dirty."

Dean threaded his fingers through his mud-clumped, still-wet-in-spots hair and grimaced. Aah, yeah, still dirty Fred. But no sore spots, no bumps or lumps or open cuts. Okay then, onward, for his left shoulder had yet to cooperate with the command to raise his left arm.

"I should go," he licked his lip, "go see the wall." he hunched his left shoulder, cringed at the result and laid his head against the wall, eyes closed. Oh yeah, no, he wouldn't be going anywhere.

"You're not going anywhere." Fred confirmed Dean's unspoken revelation firmly. "I mean, you are, you will. We're working on getting you out of here. Power's out, phone lines are dead, cells don't get a signal, CB's static but don't you worry none, rescue crews won't be long." he paused. "Though they'll probably wait until morning, daylight and all that."

Dean had no idea what time it was or when daylight was scheduled to dawn. One thing he did know – Sam wouldn't wait for the sight of the sun to come get him. Best he not look like a pin-cushion upon the arrival of Frantic-Funnel shaped Sam. He gazed down at his leg in disgust. Hopefully, it wasn't _too_ bad.

"So, aah, what do you think?" Fred asked.

"About what?" Dean sighed, forcing himself to focus. "My leg?"

"Well, yeah. You told us how to treat your rope burn but…your leg….should we pull it out? Leave it in? We were going to…."

Dean held a hand up to stop him. "Yeah, about that, FYI? That knife was nowhere near hot enough."

"Now, how would you know that?" Fred asked perplexed.

"Trust me, I know." he tested his leg, it'd turned to granite and was too heavy to move. Well, okay, maybe if he concentrated hard, real hard, he might be able to flex his toes, though what the hell good that would do, he didn't know but it was a goal he intended to achieve. Let's see, okay, grit teeth, clench jaw, furrow brow, meet eyebrows, scrunch nose – ow – there! He'd moved his big toe! Woooo-weeee!

"You all right there son?" Fred asked worriedly. "You have need of the restroom?"

" _What_?" Dean gaped, crashing back to reality with a thud. " _NO_!"

"You sure? You looked like…"

"Moving on." Dean groused hastily. "Have you tried to pull it out?"

"No. Though after the way they dragged you out of the mud and carried you up here, and then yanked your pants off, I'd say it's wedged in there but good."

"But you don't know?" Dean sighed. "Did you find any scissors?"

Fred nodded, toddling over to a nearby pew and returning with a variety of scissors, including the stupid plastic ones for three-year-olds he'd previously rejected. What part of no, did they not understand? He bit back a sigh, they were trying their best. Then he frowned, he had rejected those toy scissors, hadn't he?

He chose a small, curved pair from the display in front of him and snipped at the web of skin between his finger and thumb and handed them to Fred. "These."

"Aah, Mabel's." Fred nodded. "She'll be so pleased you chose hers, though Millie will have her nose out-of-joint."

"You're a butcher, right?" he'd sort out who Millie and Mabel were later.

"How'd you know that? You were unconscious when…"

"Slice and dice." Dean repeated tiredly. Sitting up and holding a conversation was not agreeing with him. "Can you sharpen these?"

"I don't have a whetstone on me but I can make do. I'm sure the ladies have straight pins or tin-foil." Fred set the rejected scissors aside, picked up the pair that Dean had chosen and headed off for the hall.

"Find some decent tweezers!" Dean yelled after him. He let his breath out, grateful for the reprieve. He needed a moment alone to gather both his wits and his resolve and decide what to do about his leg. He needed to think. He had no idea how much time had passed, infection was a huge risk, and loss of blood could be another. He didn't know how safe they all were from encroaching flood waters. He didn't know when to expect Sam. He didn't…..oh crap!

On the heels of Fred's departure, came Gene's arrival.

"What can I do for you?" Gene asked. "The ladies have soup on, I know you aren't hungry and won't want to eat, but it gives them something to do other than argue over you."

"Uh, thanks." he sat up from his slouch against the wall. Why would ladies be arguing over him? "Could you…?" he sat forward. "Help me. Just grab my foot under the heel….yes, that's it, like that…..now push, wait, let me see if my knee will bend….right, now just put my foot, sole down, on the mattress…..thanks."

Oh, holy-moly, that hurt! Pain crept and crawled, spreading from a tingle to a full-fledged attack. He sat back, leg still raised, feeling light-headed. Whether from pain, or knowledge or despair, he hadn't yet determined. Sam was never going to allow him to leave home again. He swallowed hard, tongue licking his upper lip, tasting the tangy tease of salt. He was shaking and he couldn't stop. He wanted to, he tried, but the ability to gain control was beyond him.

"Well?" Gene asked. "What do you think?"

Dean shrugged his good shoulder, raising his hand to meet his lowered head, using the blanket to wipe the sweat from his face. Hell, he didn't know. Looked like metal or steel or something grey, could be anything. He had no idea how deep it was imbedded; didn't know if it had struck muscle or a vein or bone; could have torn through ligaments or tendons.

Pull it out: Bleeding, possible injury to nerves and ligaments and tissue and muscle.

Leave it in: Infection, pain, possibility of imbedding it deeper. Of course, his jeans shouldn't have been dragged over it and yanked off either.

Bottom line: He wanted it out.

"Here now." Fred was back. "Didn't take long at all, they're so small. I was able to get you some tweezers, compliments of the ladies from the church sewing circle. Oh, you were able to move your leg? That's good. How does it feel?"

"I helped." Gene supplied. "I dunno Fred, he doesn't look to good."

"What do you expect Gene?" Fred sat down. "So? We should…..should…what? Wrap it back up best we can or pull it out? I had a towel around it, but you must have moved it so you could see. We were gonna yank….."

"Yeah." Dean cut him off. "I know." his stomach churned and roiled at the thought of what they had voted to do. The thought was enough to make him vomit. Both his chest and stomach hurt from their attempts to force him to evict his intestines and…Oh-oh, he _was_ going to spew!

"Here now, pail's right here." Fred said kindly. "Too much water too fast, perhaps?" he frowned. He didn't like the ashen pallor of his patients skin, or the heavy sweat, or his shaking hands, or the fine trembling in his shoulders. Shock? "Let's get this around your shoulders. This cloth first, all soft like to protect your bad shoulder, then a lap-throw one of the ladies had. All soft and fuzzy. Get you warm. Gonna straighten your leg out so you can lie down, okay?"

"No." Dean mumbled, accepting the warm fleece but resisting any attempts to help him lie down. "Gotta see first…..see what it is."

"I think that can wait."

"NO!" Dean spit one last time into the pail and let Gene remove it, waving off the offer of more water. "Too much time….. and I don't know how much." the fine trembling had become full body shaking. "No….no time."

Fred's frown deepened, the poor boy wasn't making any sense and he wasn't sure what to make of that.

"Coming through!" Will yelled. "Hot water! Coming through!" he came through the door from the hall, a five-gallon pail in each hand. "Got more heating. Got a pail of cool water and one of lukewarm coming right behind me."

Dean regrouped and roused. He best take control of the situation lest he find himself bundled, burned or – he gulped – boiled and broiled while being butchered! Oh God, he shuddered! And he needed to do it now while he could still think, and was awake and aware, if not fully alert. While he could still keep his stomach somewhat under control and was able to fight off dizziness and the overwhelming desire to faint.

With a limp wrist, he motioned for Will to set the pails down next to the cot so he could see if steam rose from the water within. It did, and he was satisfied it was indeed hot. He tried to think of something Gene could go do; the guy was driving him nuts. He really needed the guy to stop hovering like a moth to a light, but the hot water reminded him of their plan to burn him with a hot knife and he couldn't get past it. Geesch! What had they been thinking?

They'd been trying to help you, you ungrateful wretch! His mind chided, then his stomach clenched so violently, he doubled over from the pain. He rode it out silently, chin to chest, eyes closed, but man-oh-man, his jaw ached from the effort not to emit a whimper. He lost the battle but before he could do more than moan, he was completely distracted.

Say what?

"…..Millie and Mabel are waiting their turn." Will was telling Fred. "They have this lavender body wash they say with soothe him." Fred muttered something. "Yeah, I know, but while you were out building up the fire, they took a good look at him and declared he's still too dirty. Mud apparently breeds bacteria and germs so they want to bathe him properly."

"Bring a candle or a lantern, gonna need a flame." Dean finally got out, after sputtering incoherently and drawing twin looks of confusion. _Bathe him with lavender body wash_? Dear God, what had he done to deserve any of this? "Gonna need good light as well." choosing to ignore the thought of his impending bed bath, he moved on. "Ask the ladies for thread, nylon is preferable, though any strong thread will do." of course, if the thread was silk, Sam would rip every last stitch out and re-stitch with thread of his choosing, gentleness not required. "See if any of them have a curved needle."

"Wait, for what?" Will asked.

"Stitches?" Fred guessed. "Your leg? Are you sure?"

"Best be prepared." Dean said, focusing on not slurring his words. "Gotta pull it out, control any bleeding, cut away torn skin and damaged tissue with these scissors, remove any foreign objects with tweezers, clean it thoroughly with hot water, treat it with antiseptic, stitch and bandage."

"Damaged what? How would I know what's damaged and I don't know how to stitch." Fred was pale. "Not…how deep or…"

"I'll guide you." Dean cracked a wan grin. "Snip any flaps of skin you can move with your finger then take your needle and begin sewing as far away from the cut as the wound is deep. Cut it off and tie a knot every 1/4 inch. Don't worry about scarring, only gotta do good enough to keep me from bleeding out 'til Sam gets here."

"Yes, see, you mean your brother, right?" Will began, only to have Dean shake his head. "Yes, he….the rescue workers won't allow him to come with them when they come for us. He'll meet you at the hospital."

"You don't know Sam." Dean rubbed at his eyes. "He'll be here before any rescue attempt is made."

"I don't see...…how?" Will questioned doubtfully, but Dean had no answer. It wasn't explainable, it just was.

"Walk, swim, raft, canoe, hovercraft, harpoon a zip line, swing from tree limb to tree limb….he'll find a way." and depending on how quickly Cas arrived, and most likely, he'd already been on his way to them, and not from all that far away either, Sam would have little difficulty reaching him. And with Sam would be _their_ first aid kit, with those wonderful pain-meds and any and every medical supply needed; there'd be no need to make do with what was on hand.

"About those, erhm, stitches." Fred cleared his throat. "I don't think I can do it. I mean, what if they tear loose or they bleed or I don't get deep enough or you need stitches inside, like….."

"Fred…Fred…..hey, don't worry about it. I'm right here, I'll help you and it only has to be good enough to get me through a day or so, okay? Maybe I won't even need them…but if I do, we need to be ready. Let's just worry about stopping any bleeding and let Sammy fuss about any internal damage to muscle or tendon, okay?" he waited. "Fred, we good?"

Fred wiped his brow, squared his shoulders, said a prayer and nodded. Dean blew his breath out.

"I might pass out when you remove that." he gestured to his leg. "Don't worry, I'll come around. If there's bleeding, control it, you can wait for me to wake up or begin stitching if you feel ready….okay? Fred?"

"Right….yes…..yes….."

"Hold the needle in the flame before you thread it…let it turn black, soak the thread in water as hot as you can get it….try to be as clean as you can be. Infection is my enemy." Dean decided he should lie down before the procedure. "Just grab it and yank, pull it out. Don't worry about me."

"What if…..what if…it….it's, what if it doesn't come out?"

"It will. Use your strength. Ignore me if I scream, and don't stop. One fluid motion Fred, okay?"

"It's wet and slippery and I don't know if I can get a good grip on it. It's not protruding out too far and….."

"Maybe we should let it be." Will said dubiously. "Why put you through all this? They will airlift you to the hospital…"

"You said the ladies sew. Perhaps one of them has a pair of hemostats." Dean suggested. He was finding it harder to breathe, harder to talk, harder to concentrate, harder to stay awake. "Ask when you go get the thread and needle."

"Hemo whato?" Will repeated.

"I know what they are." Fred said grimly. "But Dean, seriously, not really used for sewing."

"You wanna bet?" Dean countered. "Go ask."

Will exchanged a look with Fred that implied they both thought Dean had finally gone and lost his wits, then shrugged and went off. Fred busied himself filling bowls with water, positioning candles and lanterns and an LED flashlight. He laid out the first aid supplies Dean had selected and sorted them in the order he felt he would use them, all the while keeping one eye on Dean.

"Leg first, then shoulder and arm." Dean instructed, answering Fred's unspoken question. "Don't stop, don't quit, don't wimp out on me, it's gotta be done."

Fred nodded, not trusting himself to speak, but he wasn't so sure _it did have to be done_. Dean took his silence as agreement. If he noticed how green Fred was around the gills, he didn't comment.

"I'll be hanged." Will came in waving what both Dean and Fred knew were hemostats. "Here we go! Oh, and thread and needles, take your pick." he gave all items to Dean. "They're bringing a bowl of boiling water. Hope it's hot enough for you."

Dean nodded. He was too tired, in too much pain and too disoriented to pay the variety of thread displayed before him the attention it deserved, so he chose the spool of darkest thread that appeared more string then thread – his sight was a bit blurry – selected the first needle that drew blood after pricking his finger and handed both to Fred.

"Just….do me a favor." Dean bit his lip, riding a wave of pain with a wince. "…..don't….don't let Sam know….don't tell him….about the kid…..about the dog."

"Sure." hands petted and patted his foot, rotating his ankle, eliciting a cry but not a shriek as both his feet were slightly elevated. "You won't be walking on this leg anytime soon." and Sam wouldn't be there at all, so sure, promise whatever the boy wanted to hear, Fred said to himself.

"Sam." Dean insisted, blowing his breath out. "Don't pat me on my head and patronize me….."

"Don't you worry none about him." his cheek was patted, a gesture of comfort Dean wanted no part of. "You'll see him at the hospital."

"No." Dean shook his head, coming up on his elbows to see what they were doing to him. All the moving about and the hands lifting his leg and wiggling him down the mattress made the pain flare and nausea to threaten to overcome him. Again. "He'll be here."

"That's not possible." Fred reiterated. "Now, no more fussing about your brother."

"You don't know Sam." his eyes narrowed as a stick appeared in front of his face, he paused, speaking when he had the breath. "Don't tell him what happened," pause, pant, gulp, "just keep saying, 'you don't know'." he glanced up at Gene, who stood beaming, waving his hand all about. "The hell?" seriously, _what the hell_? What was the crazy-ass dude trying to do? Land a plane?

"A stick for you to bite on." Gene announced, bringing it closer for Dean's inspection. Too close, because even if his vision wasn't blurry, all Dean could make out was a dark blob. He raised his hand to grab Gene's wrist, pushed it away then forced it to remain still so he could see what Gene held. "Cleaned it and everything."

"A what?" Dean frowned, bottom lip caught between his teeth. "I don't….what's that for?"

"So you don't bite your tongue or swallow it." Gene explained, giving Dean a look that clearly stated he thought Dean should know what it was for.

Dean was too tired and too miserable to argue or to attempt to set Gene straight about pain and how to handle it. "Fred?"

"Okay, sure. Don't tell Sam what happened." the tone and the accompanying pat on the head were condescending and Dean gritted his teeth to keep from lashing out. "Anything else we shouldn't tell him?

"Won't be that easy." Dean warned. "Cas." he grunted around the stick now between his teeth. Couldn't they have at least retrieved a stick of wood that, you know, didn't taste like wood? Birch maybe? "I need….Cas." he let his head hit the edge of the cot frame with such a thud, that somewhere, a shiver skittered down Sam's spine. "Sam will know….just tell Sam to call Cas."

Castiel wouldn't be able to heal him fully, not with his diminished powers, but he would be able to heal the injury if not the results. Not that that made any sense, well, it did, but only to him. He'd never be able to make this motley medical crew doing their best to treat him understand. What a pickle he'd gotten himself into this time. He could hear Sam now: If you'd stayed where I told you to! If you hadn't left the camp! If you hadn't decided to make everyone your responsibility! If you ever listened to me shit like this wouldn't happen!

Aww, hell, he was so going to have his ass kicked when Sam finally caught up with him, and yeah, this time Cas would help. With that last thought, Dean let go. Put himself in the hands of people he didn't know and sent out an SOS call of his own. Yeah, Cas, come find me now. He slid deeper into black oblivion, disconnecting from awareness.

What he really wanted was Sam. He wanted to be home, in his own room, the familiar whump-whump of the bunker's exhaust system echoing in his ears while Sam, barefoot and hair in disarray, padded up and down the hallways, back and forth to the kitchen, bringing him soup and toast with both butter and peanut butter and hot toddy's and juice. Where Sam would pass the open door to his room every five minutes to make sure Dean was still within and still breathing and didn't want for anything. Where Sam would sit in a chair near the bed when he thought Dean was asleep; where the barest whimper would bring Sam running; where his every need and demand would be catered to; where….AAUUGGHH!

He jerked, flailing on the bed, his head banging against the frame, the wall, someone's arm. Voices shushed him. His foot was caught and held and something reached through his skin, through muscle and tissue, past ligaments and tendons and proceeded to yank his bone right out of his leg!

Oh For The Love Of God! How could they have gotten it wrong!?

His leg might have been numb, might have tingled and burned but now…..now…? Oh, now he had full feeling. He could feel it all; pain and torment and torture…would it all go away, he wondered, if they put back the bone they'd stolen? His teeth ground against the stick, tongue muting his screams and impeding his ability to gulp air. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't lie still.

You can't panic, you can't panic, do not panic, he sang to himself, you can't afford to panic, not with this bunch of local yokels! Gain control Dean, control the pain and your body's reaction to it. You can do it, you _have_ to do it.

He bucked and flopped, his movements tempered by a gentle hold. His panic, fueled by a cacophony of strange, frantic, voices fed his strength and desperation, and he was able to throw off the hold on his right shoulder and sit up but unable to jerk his leg free from the hands holding it to the mattress.

"Dean."

His name was spoken gently, softly and repeatedly. The voices became one; calm, steady, soothing. It was low-pitched and didn't spike in alarm, just kept saying his name, telling him he was okay, he was safe, that he was going to be ok. His panic slowly subsided until finally quelled.

So, he sat. He sat upright and still, left arm hugged against his side, fingers clenching his belly that heaved with the effort to breathe normally. His shoulder was on fire, screaming in harmony with his leg but he sat and he remained still and he did nothing.

"You with me?" Fred asked. Dean nodded, not yet having recovered the ability to speak. "It's in there pretty good, I pulled once and you flipped out on me. Didn't budge it either." he held up the hemostats. "You wanna lie down? Maybe you should."

Dean spit the stick out and licked his lip. Salty. Just how bad was he sweating anyway? "Be ready." he gasped, tongue dry and thick. "Might gush like a geyser."

"Be ready with what?" Gene asked bewildered but Will stood ready, holding a towel in both hands, ready to shine a melon.

"Don't pussy-foot around like a pansy. " Dean used the fleece around his shoulders to wipe his face. "Yank it out."

"It'd lodged….." Fred began.

"Don't worry about it." Dean waved him off. "Just get it out."

"What if yanking it out tears your leg worse than it did going in?" Fred argued. "Rips or severs something it shouldn't?"

"Gimme." Dean held his good hand out and waggled his fingers for the hemostats. "I'll do it."

Fred's face twisted in horror and for the first time, his hand began to shake. The thought of Dean doing that to himself made him sick.

"No." Fred said firmly, drawing himself up straight. "No…" he positioned the hemostats, clamped them closed, closed his eyes, wrapped his left hand over his right so both were holding the handle, took a huge breath, held it...and yanked.

Will and Gene both leapt forward to support Dean, for with that one yank, Fred dragged Dean off the cot and nearly landed him on the floor. One-handed, Dean couldn't catch himself and prevent the fall. Will might be elderly and Gene only had one arm, but between them and Dean's struggle to hold on, Dean remained on the cot.

"Got it!" Fred announced triumphantly. He waved the offending grey object still firmly clasped in the hemostats about in the air. "Little sucker had a firm hold but….OH MY LORD!" he yelped. "TOWEL! TOWEL! I need a TOWEL! PRESSURE!"

Abandoning Dean to regain his balance and hold his head up on his own, Will complied. He grabbed a folded towel, slapped it over the gash in Dean's shin and squeezed tight.

"SOMEONE DO SOMETHING!" Gene danced, squawking in fright. "That's a lot of blood!"

Will was feeling a bit faint himself. Having tended scraped knees and a broken bone or two, he didn't fluster easily. He'd seen a lot of injuries and illnesses over the years with the Scouts. Why, take right here, for instance. He hadn't felt fear or dismay over the rope burn or the protruding object from Dean's leg. But now, this…this…..well, that was a lot of blood. At first, it had been red, the color blood was supposed to be, but now? Now…..

His balance recovered, both ass cheeks firmly back on the cot, Dean sagged against the wall. His lead lolled and his chin dipped, yeah, maybe he should have lain down. There were several Fred's, a couple Will's and hey Gene, good news buddy, not only did you grow a second arm, you grew a third and…oh there, was that a fourth? No? Then what the hell was it? The room swirled and dipped and spun, images multiplied and danced, he was unable to distinguish noises, everything sounded like he was under water. He was hot, he was dizzy, he was...

"Why is it purple?" Will blurted out. Too stunned to curb his tongue, he forgot rule number one. Don't show panic lest your patient panics right along with you.

"It's not purple." Dean panted calmly, snapped out of his funk. "Nicked a vein is all."

"IS ALL?!" Gene yelped. "Isn't that a bad thing? Can't be good, right? RIGHT?"

"It looks purple." Will insisted.

Dean rolled his eyes. Now was not the time for anyone to panic. He wanted to, but if he did, they all would and then where would he be?

"All's good." Dean replied, allowing Will to apply and hold pressure and raise his leg and do whatever he wanted to with it. "It'll stop." he swallowed, but his throat was dry and he choked, scaring all three men who stared at him in horror. "I'm...ok!" he held a hand up. "Will….keep pressure on my leg, as hard and as tight as you can. If I bleed through the towel, add another, don't remove the old one. Fred, while we wait for the bleeding to stop…. **and it will** ….." he took the time to stress for the benefit of the men. "….start on my shoulder…." he accepted some water from Gene then laid down, draping his right arm across his eyes. "I'm ready."

If put under oath, Fred would have sworn hours had passed since Dean had passed out and come to and everyone had been shooed out of the church, but in reality? Well, maybe 45 minutes had ticked off the clock. He washed his hands, picked up the sharpened scissors and tweezers, adjusted the light and with a snip and a clip, began his arduous task.

"Here now, Gene, enough with the carrying on." Fred said sternly. "Get ahold of yourself and lend me a hand."

Gene gulped, fanned his face with his hand then positioned himself to hand Fred pads of gauze, pour water, dab with a dry or wet cloth, squeeze ointment, spray antiseptic wash, apply bandages and tear tape with his teeth. Dean was stoic, eyes closed and his breathing shallow throughout the ordeal of having the rope burn across his chest treated. The way the rope had draped over his neck had left a mere brush burn and required no more attention than a courtesy wash.

"How's it doing Will?" Fred asked, hesitating before taking Dean's left arm by the wrist and slowly raising it up over his head to get at his armpit. "Slowing up?"

"Yeah, bled through three folded towels, but holding good on the fourth."

"Just…..keep at it." Dean said faintly, hissing as hot water stung his raw skin. How long before he'd be able to tolerate putting on deodorant? A month? Two? Long enough Sam would bitch. "Damn….Fred….OW!" he flinched, trying his best to hold still and failing. "Sonuvabitch! Leave what skin was left!"

"Sorry, worst of it, I'm afraid. Then we'll get your back."

Yeah, Dean thought morosely, his back, his leg, then stitches…..well, he hissed and jerked, that is if he managed to live through being divested of any and all skin under his armpit. How was he supposed to ever lower his arm again? At least until he healed anyway.

"How's your stomach?" Fred asked out of the blue. "Maybe you ought to take some aspirin or ibuprofen, can't hurt, right?"

"Aah…" he stammered, trying to think. Let's see, aspirin – oh hell, no. Not with his leg gushing like a park fountain. Tylenol – no. Sam would not only kick his ass, he'd knock a tooth or two out, and Dean hated the dentist. Ibuprofen – again not good with head injuries or bleeding. "Um…..ow! Guess, Tylenol." eh, what was another crown or two? "Take it easy!"

"Sorry, sorry. Right, oh right. The bleeding and all." Fred nodded. "Okay, so, your leg next." he shook several pills from a bottle into the palm of his hand and offered them to Dean with the opened bottle of water. "Then we can turn you over and get your back."

Dean didn't want to look at or deal with his leg. It hurt. What they were doing hurt and he knew what they were doing was probably wrong, or not right, or done the wrong way but the point was to stop the bleeding. Cas would deal with any internal damage later and Sam would get him through any infection or illness. Right now, he just had to stay alive until Cas and Sam reached him.

"You okay son?" Fred paused at the chuckle. "I gotta say, you're holding up quite remarkably."

"Little tired." Dean mumbled, allowing himself to drift off to sleep or maybe it was unconsciousness – whatever – while they poked and patted and padded the gash in his leg. He barely felt the snipping and nipping only rousing when he heard the discussion about heating the needle over the flame. Great, he was going to have to oversee the stitches, lest he wind up with thread in his leg that was too loose and didn't pull the skin together; or worse, too tight. "Help me sit up." he heaved a sigh, once again using the fleece to wipe his face. "Will, you keep pressure right there. Gene, hold the light so Fred can see what he's doing. Fred, your hands clean? Okay, good….get the thread."

By Dean's guess-ta-mation, 12 stitches should do it. After the first two, Fred no longer hesitated and needed no further instruction. Dean plopped down onto his back to count with a huff of relief. Three, four, ow, five, ow, six, sonuvabitch, six, ouch, six, um…..maybe he should have let them burn him with a not-so-hot-knife, six, still hurt, seven, same as six, six…..what the hell…where was the next one? What the hell was Fred doing? Couldn't he count? Of….there, okay…..six, no….aah, to hell with it.

"Dean?" Will gave his hip a poke. "Either passed out or fell asleep."

"He's gotta be exhausted." Fred commented. "Poor fellow. Almost done here. Let's put some of that ointment on and wrap it up. Then we'll turn him over, get his back and put him to bed."

"He's in bed." Gene pointed out.

"A dry, clean bed with soft blankets and fluffy pillows." Fred sighed. "Let him get some rest." he was exhausted. Stress and tension had wiped him out. He wanted Dean settled so he could go grab a sandwich and take a nap. "Gene, go get a couple of the boys to come turn him over so I can get his back."

His leg bandaged and wrapped, Dean was lifted and laid on his belly. He didn't stir while Fred thoroughly cleaned the rope burn on his back with hot water, and then treated it with antiseptic wash and ointment before taping gauze pads over the deepest gouges.

"Okay fellows, on his back and we're done. Thanks."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? This is my favorite time of year! I'd rather be outside raking leafs and decorating with mums and gourds and pumpkins than inside typing away on a computer! I'd always rather be at the lake, with grass and trees instead of sand and sun; with hawks and eagles rather than squalling, squawking seagulls; with deer and squirrels then people!
> 
> Concord grapes and McIntosh apples: apple cider and apple crisp and apple pie and apple tarts…Mmmmmmm…..Aah, Lancaster County, PA! Bred, born and raised in the hills of PA...how on earth did I end up in Baltimore?

He didn't know where he was...He didn't know who he was with...He didn't know what was wrong with him...He didn't know if it were night or day or how much time had passed...He didn't know what had happened....He knew he didn't feel good...He knew he hurt...He knew something was wrong...He knew he wasn't home...He knew he wasn't with Sam.

So, he drifted and flitted and meandered aimlessly until something told him he needed to wake up and take control before he ended up crippled by the inept but well-meaning care he was receiving. Aah…..what? He cared, didn't he? Cared about…..about…..well, he cared, he stubbornly insisted to anyone who was listening. Not that anyone answered. That was odd, he wasn't alone, he knew he wasn't because he could hear voices. Why wasn't anyone talking to him?

He tried again, nothing. Was his tongue working? Self-check…..yes, it waggled, licked his lips, felt his teeth….eeeww, he needed a toothbrush…..he was _actually_ talking out loud wasn't he? Considering the lack of response he was getting, maybe not. Well, okay then, fine, whatever. If he could locate and label one body part that didn't in some way hurt, he'd say good enough.

And that made sense to whom?

"He's got such nice hands. Just look at them. See how long his fingers are! And his nails! How trim, almost like he's had a manicure. My goodness though, the scars! Why, just look at this one here on his arm. Tsk, tsk, must have hurt, what do you think caused that Mabel? Burn?"

"Oh, how you do go on." Mabel scolded affectionately. "And Fred still insists he washed this boy!"

"Well, with that belly, he can't exactly bend over." Millie chuckled. "All this mud in his hair."

Mabel tsked-tsked as well. "Get that old man some new glasses! Why, we're going to have to wash him all over again."

"Right." Millie nodded emphatically. "All. Over."

Oh, not liking her tone. Not at all. Had a sinister feeling to it...like she was up to something. Had an ulterior motive.

"Such a chore." Mabel shook her head sadly, heaved a huge sigh and shared a grin with her twin. "Well, I suppose sacrifices must be made." she said sagely. "What a task!"

"It's a good thing we're up to the challenge." Millie sighed, wringing out a cloth. "What we must do…."

He was getting a manicure! He'd always wanted one….okay, ssssh, don't tell Samantha, but he'd had one or two or ten over the years. Oooh, maybe they'd give him a pedicure too. He really liked those! Not that he'd ever had an 'official' one, but there'd been that make-up artist and she'd….

"Wonder if there's a wife."

"Oh, surely there must be. Someone this handsome, but no….no ring. Course, that makes no difference these days."

"This younger generation, I swear! No truckin' with tradition."

"Someone must take care of him."

Sam did: 'Sam be nimble, Sam be quick, Sam tends Dean when he's sick', he chanted the altered nursery rhyme, over and over and over…albeit apparently only in his head because no one scolded him about it or his singing voice.

"I bet he's been a resident of the hospital on more than one occasion."

Dean nodded. Oh, yes. Yes indeed. Many times. Many, many, _many_ times. Too many times. Oh, the times…..

"Hello dear. Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

It's Dean, not dear and I can hear you just fine. No need to shout or repeat yourself and stop patting my cheek!

"Easy there, you just relax." pat, pat, pat. "Sleepy time." the voice soothed. "You just sleep."

Trying to! And you pat me one more time you're drawing back a stub, not a hand complete with fingers.

"You want his feet?" Mabel offered.

Millie perked up. "Toes?"

"Are usually attached to feet." Mabel said dryly.

"Ooh, such nice toes they are too." Millie cackled gleefully, rubbing her hands together in anticipation. "I've always…..."

"Had a foot fetish." Mabel finished. "Yes, I know."

"Admired feet." Millie sniffed. "Not the same at all."

Good God Almighty! Where the hell was he and who the bloody hell was he with?! He struggled to open his eyes, celebrated victory with a rousing hur-rah, complete with mental fist pump – and promptly admitted defeat, for crap, he hadn't retained single vision. And he knew he'd had it before. But nope, there were two – not one – two little ole gray-haired ladies.

"No." he shook his head. "No." that had been verbal. Both times. He'd stake his life out it. But he went ignored, his bed bath had begun.

And boy, were they thorough. Very, very thorough.

Awkward? Yes indeed, oh-how-very-awkward, but he had neither the strength nor the inclination to halt the advance of the wandering cloth….ehrm….cloths, for seeing double apparently meant four….four?….hands.

***000***

Sam stared. He didn't move, he didn't speak, he just stood and stared.

And as far as Rob could tell, Sam stared at nothing. So he watched; watched Sam do nothing, hovering nearby, unsure what to say or do, waiting for Sam to do something – anything. Rant, rave, scream, holler, throw rocks, kick at the ground, shake his fists in the air…..but no…..he sat down.

Sat down?

Rob opened his mouth to speak, to say something, but no words came out. He simply didn't know what to say, so he said nothing and waited. He didn't know how much time had passed while Sam sat and did nothing but it had been enough to start Rob thinking perhaps all wasn't right in Sam's head. He couldn't remain standing there, waiting on Sam. He needed to return to the camp and help Don with the boys and…oh, Sam was moving now! But...what the fuck was he doing?!

Sam had lurched to his feet and was now a whirlwind of activity. He darted to and fro frantically, hands waving, arms pin-wheeling, head whipping side to side; he stared at the sky, he stared at the ground, he stared directly ahead. He went one direction, stopped, turned, retraced his steps, and paced. He tested the mud, venturing further each time he approached the edge of the field of debris. He tossed rocks, threw sticks, climbed a tree. He ran up river, walked down river. He counted, he chanted, he talked, he argued. He approached what looked like an area flooded with only water and waded in up to his waist before Rob panicked and called for him to come back.

"Now where are you going?" Rob demanded when Sam set out at a jog back towards the mini-mart. "Sam? Hey, talk to me, you're scaring me buddy." Rob reached out, snagged the back of Sam's coat and halted him mid-step.

"The camp." Sam said distractedly, eyes darting to and fro, allowing the hold on his coat to keep him stopped.

Well finally, Rob sighed, the first sensible thing Sam had said or done since learning of the mudslide. "Good, that's good." Rob agreed. "Let's go see if Don was able to raise anyone on the CB."

"Huh?" Sam was gazing up at the sky and Rob swore he was chanting again.

"The camp wasn't affected by the mudslide nor did it flood, so we'll be safe there. You were right, though I don't know how you knew that."

"Cas told me." and Sam was off at a fast paced jog.

"Sam! Hey, slow down!" Rob demanded, trying to keep up. "We need to…." he paused. "Who's Cas? What are you talking about? He told you what?"

"If Dean would have kept his ass where I told him to stay, he'd be safe but no." Sam picked up his pace. "Dumb ass never does what he's told and I know that." he glanced up at the sky, stumbling when he was thrown off-balance. "I know better. I know _him_."

"And this Cas is who?" Rob asked again, starting to lag behind. "You aren't making any sense Sam."

"Mother Nature's a fickle bitch, but Cas wins a round against her every once in a while. He never would have led me to this Scout camp if we were in danger there."

"Uh….say what?"

"I doubt she'd do anything to him out on that mountain….and since when does Nebraska have mountains like these?" Sam threw his hands up. "Mudslides? Really?"

"Uh…..you ok Sam?"

"They play their games." Sam shook his head, shaking his hair out of his eyes. "And Dean and I are pawns, sometimes the prize….I dunno what all goes on where, but I'll tell ya, I'm mighty sick and tired of it."

Rob was wheezing, his side had a stitch but he kept on Sam's heels. Couldn't say why he did, but he did. Maybe it was because the poor boy thought Mother Nature was real! Real like, you know, a person. A real person who played chess with this Cas dude. Apparently Sam didn't handle stress or mental trauma well!

They reached the camp, where Sam headed straight for the camp kitchen. Poor Shin saw him come through the door and armed himself with a wooden spoon in each hand, spewing a rapid volley of his native language in warning. Sam held his hands up in a show of surrender and they stared one another down until Quan was retrieved to translate.

"You're brother left for town before the earth shook." Quan relayed. "They didn't come back."

Sam seethed. So Dean hadn't gone in response to the disaster or emergency. He'd gone because he'd been bored. Sam was going to….to….to…..well, when he was able to think right, he'd think of something to do to the stubborn, obstinate, pain in the ass! He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. First, he wanted his brother back. He'd take him back anyway he could get him. Then once he had him back and he was hale and hearty, well…...

"They're at the church." Rob said. "They have to be."

"And if Dean went to town? Went door to door?" Sam countered. "Was telling people to evacuate their house when the mudslide happened?"

"Have faith Sam, they're at the church." Rob said quietly. "Like I told you, those folks are used to floods, as soon as there's a serious threat of a flood, they retreat to the church."

Sam snorted, have faith? Yeah, right. "And you said the National Guard comes and prepares sandbags…..where are they?"

Rob followed as Sam went to the tent he shared with his brother, collected their few belongings, tossed everything in the car and climbed behind the wheel.

"Where are you going?" Rob asked, holding the door open before Sam could close it.

"Back to the river." Sam turned the engine over. "You want me to have faith? One way or another, I will get to that church."

"Are you crazy?" Don exclaimed. "Suicidal? Stay right here and wait for the rescue crews to arrive."

Where the hell had he come from? "And when will that be? Daylight?" Sam snapped, emotions and patience frazzled. "I'm not waiting that long. I'm not waiting for anyone to _'help'_ me get to my brother!"

"The county sheriff will send someone to check on the town." Don argued. "Rob said the houses are gone, destroyed by the mudslide. The electric will be off grid, the sheriff won't be able to raise anyone on the radio or reach the store by phone…"

"And what are they going to do with they get here?" Sam asked. "In the dark? No one is strolling up to that church."

"And yet you expect to?" Don scoffed. "You don't even know where it is!"

"I know the direction, I'll find it." Sam vowed. "Stay here. Trust me. This camp is safe." he shifted the transmission into reverse. "I gotta go."

"Sam, wait!" Rob resisted the tug on the door. "You can't cross that river! There's no way it's safe!"

"You don't understand." Sam yanked the door free and slammed it closed. "I have to know Dean's ok."

"And risk your own life to do it?" Rob knocked on the window, shouting to be heard through the glass. "Why? Hey, let me in!" he tried the back door and finding in unlocked, climbed in even though Sam was pulling away. "You're crazy!" the door swung shut. "You need to see reason here Sam!"

Sam didn't order him out of the car, concentrating on maneuvering the heavy car through the flooded lot. He finally bumped the tires onto the paved road and turned towards 'town'. Rob continued to babble from the backseat, he went ignored but it didn't stop him. He was still arguing with a silent Sam when Sam parked at the mini-mart, popped the trunk and rooted around, flinging and discarding items and objects as he loaded what he wanted into a backpack.

"Where can I find a boat?" he asked Rob, finally emerging from the trunk with the backpack and a duffel. He closed it with an elbow.

"What?"

"A boat. I need a boat."

"You want a what?" Rob said stupidly. No, literally, he was struck dumb.

"A boat! It floats on water, carries people….."

"I mean….for what?"

"To cross the river." his tone implied he was dealing with Rob as though he were a mentally challenged child.

"In that current?" Rob exclaimed. "There's no way!"

"A rowboat." Sam went on. "This…..this town, as you call it, is on a river, don't tell me there aren't any boats around." please-oh-please, don't let them all be at the houses.

"The river is raging!" Rob protested, his arms waved wildly. "HELLO? You can HEAR it! The mudslide pushed its current…."

"Where. Can. I. Find. A. Boat?"

Rob sighed. "You can't mean…..you don't plan…...don't you see...YOU'RE CRAZY!"

"Motorboat won't do. A canoe or a kayak?" he shouldered the backpack, and carrying the duffel, began to walk across the lot to the mini-mart. Rob stared after him and Sam was out of sight before Rob regained the ability to move. "Any boats up at the camp?" Sam asked when Rob caught up.

"No." Rob said. "We have the boys build rafts at the lake."

"Any made?"

"No."

Sam grunted and continued his search. It was now completely dark. Had it been late morning/early afternoon when he'd left the camp with Rob to bring the troop up from the river? He had one thought, one goal: reach Dean before his brother couldn't control his actions; before he gave up, lost consciousness and gave in. If the mark somehow managed to gain control….

Sam shuddered. He couldn't, wouldn't let that happen. Hold on Dean, hold on, I'm coming.

Enough time must have passed for the sheriff to have decided to investigate, because when Sam and Rob – or Sam – finally admitted defeat and returned to the parking lot of the mini-mart, it was awash in red and blue flashing lights and swarming with police officers, firemen and various men.

Aah, the cavalry – pitiful as it appeared – had arrived.

Rob was known to someone for there was soon a deep discussion that at first excluded Sam then focused solely on him as he stood at the edge of the road that led to the submerged bridges. Sam knew they approached him, knew the man wearing some kind of helmet with a rescue crew emblem on it was speaking to him, but between the flare up of wind and rain and the occasional clap of the thunder, it was impossible to hear him. And really, Sam didn't try all that hard to pay him any attention.

He had to cross that river or field of mud or whatever the hell they were calling it. Really, what choice did he have? Sure, Dean might be fine but chances were, knowing Dean, he'd gone and done something stupid – or ok, heroic – and was pretty freaking far from 'ok'.

"Sam, hey listen. This is Deputy Jefferson and he'd like a word with you." Rob said without much hope of gaining any cooperation from Sam. "Sam, come on, you gotta be reasonable."

"Sir, if I understand Rob correctly, and I hope I don't, you plan to launch a boat and attempt to cross the river?" Deputy Jefferson said. "But you haven't found one yet." he paused but Sam didn't respond. "I have to strongly discourage you from making any such attempt." he went on.

Sam was silent, could he swim?

"See sir, the river…..her current is strong and her path has been diverted by the mud. It's not safe to cross." was what was said, what Sam heard was; blah, blah, blah. "…..professionals are equipped and qualified and you're not…..." blah, blah, blah.

Could he swim with the backpack on his back? What about the duffel? Leave it behind? He couldn't do that, it was their first aid kit. Could he fit it into the backpack?

"I can't let you do this."

Now that, he heard and he wasn't about to ignore any attempt to control him or his intended actions. No one was going to keep him from getting to his brother. He dared them to try and stop him. He was up to the challenge and could use a fight to engage in to burn off some frustration.

"You. Can't. Let. Me." each word was a pointed barb. "How do you intend to stop me?" congratulations Deputy Jefferson, you now have my full attention, you asshole.

"I'll arrest you and hold you in a cell."

"You can try."

"It's too dangerous. The water, the wind, the unpredictable storm yet to arrive, the lightning, the unstable ground, not to mention, the dangers buried in that mudslide; sewer, oil, gasoline, propane. I can't, I won't, let you risk everything for one man. I'm sorry, yes, I understand he's your brother, but no, it's not worth it."

"You mean 'he'." Sam's sanity hung by a thread. "He's not worth it, that's what you're saying, isn't it?" his hands clenched, his fingers were tightly fisted, and the tension in his arms was reflected by the appearance of a throbbing vein in his neck. "Say. It."

"Sam." Rob reached for his shoulder and while Sam tolerated the touch of the unfamiliar palm on his shoulder, he by no means backed down. "Hey, come on now."

"I'm either going through it, under it or over it, but I WILL cross it!" Sam insisted steadily. "Anyone in my way who tries to stop me…"

"Sam!" Rob cut in forcefully. "Hey! Man, what's up with you?"

"Now Rob, I think your friend here wants to rip my head from my shoulders with his bare hands."

"You're _just_ a deputy and if this is supposed to be a search and rescue team…." Sam waved his hands at the disarray of swarming men converged in discord in the parking lot. "They're complaining about the lack of coffee in the mini-mart? Really? _REALLY_?"

"Or recovery." Deputy Jefferson added. "Search and rescue or recovery."

"Not helping!" Rob spoke up. "And no Sam, they're not….I mean, not officially. They're local and….."

"…..fine for the folks from around here." Sam continued like neither interruption had occurred. "But not for my brother. You don't know him, you don't understand what he could do, what could happen, what he's capable of."

"Just what are you saying?" the deputy demanded. "He some kind of psycho or something?"

"You're in my way." Sam said. "Move."

"Sam, hey now, come on." Rob tried again to obtain peace before tensions were strung any tighter. "State police will be here soon. What say we give them a chance? They'll have a chopper…."

"Ain't going up in this weather." deputy asshole smirked. "And they ain't gonna like your attitude any better than I do."

The state police did indeed arrive. Whatever I.D. Sam showed to them produced an entire different attitude, and while they agreed with Deputy Jefferson about the chopper, they were sympathetic and much more willing to help Sam, even though they advised against his plan.

"Fine, you say no chopper is flying in this weather, I get that. I do. So, tell me, where do I find a boat?"

"We can have a rowboat here in thirty minutes. But I can't authorize any of my men to accompany you." the state police officer said solemnly. "Anything goes wrong out there, I can't launch an immediate rescue for you. You're on your own." he added apologetically. "This is an unauthorized attempt, you stole the boat while my back was turned."

"I'm okay with that." Sam shook his hand. "Less weight in the boat, the better." they parted and Sam made himself scarce until a SUV pulled in, trailering a rowboat that was left unattended. "Hold on Dean, I'm coming."

***000***

He was flying: 'Up, up and away, my beautiful, my beautiful balloon!' he sang in his best Marilyn McCoo voice. "Wouldn't you like to ride in my beau-OOOOO-oooch!" he screeched. "...yow-OW!" his pleasant glide on his beautiful balloon erupted in a burst of fiery agony and crashed, tumbling him back to earth amidst fire and brimstone.

"Easy there, pardner." hands held his right shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to stop him from thrashing. "You're okay, just relax Dean." his hands were caught, held, squeezed. When he tried to kick, his right leg taunted him by not moving at all and his left was easily held still by a firm grip on his ankle.

"No….no….." Dean murmured. Fueled by pain, confusion and fear, he babbled on. "No…..no burning. Been stabbed 'afore…never needed no burning."

"Okay, okay. You're hot is all. Running a slight fever. There's no fire."

"Burned by laser though." he coughed. He wished for a drink, and poof, there it was. A cup was held to his mouth and his head was supported while he sipped. "My leg."

"Yes, your leg was injured."

"Been stabbed, burned, cursed." he thumped his head about the pillow, seeking a cool spot. "Ripped apart." his eyes were open, weren't they? No matter. "Allergic…..allergy…to….apples." his voice was raspy, his words spaced but he babbled on. "No, not apples." he was silent for a bit. "Tis the seeds. And bees." he started to hum. "Big bees….huge ones."

"How's he doing?" Will asked, taking a seat on the bench next to Fred, who'd been officially elected to take care of their wounded 'leader'. "How'd you convince the ladies to give him up?"

"Bit of a fever." was the grim reply, sighed somewhat tiredly. "Told 'em he'd be wanting some warm bread when he woke up."

Dip, wring, pat. Dip, wring, pat. Dip, wring, pat.

"Guess his hair isn't wet from the rain." Will said. "No chance of a leak in the roof directly above his head?"

"Nope."

"Sweating like that…..infection?"

"Probably, too soon to really know."

"Leg?"

"Would be my guess."

"Anything we can do about it?"

"I don't know what."

"Stitches holding? Any bleeding?"

"Haven't rounded up the nerve to take a peek. Pain's him some. He's real good about lying still when he's quiet." Fred left the rag in the bowl of water and set it aside. "He's getting restless now though."

"Been a couple of hours." Will said. "He's gotta be feeling it."

"I'm sure." Fred agreed.

"So, any idea what we do next?"

"Nope." Fred stretched his back. "Been outta my league here but he's been awake to help me, you know?"

"You ever get him to take some aspirin?"

"He took some Tylenol." Fred shrugged. "Guess we keep him comfortable and wait for help to arrive."

No. Dean frowned, shaking his head. No waiting. Waiting not good. He picked himself up, stepped out of the balloon wreckage, dusted off and confronted the audience.

"Lemme see." he lifted his head from the pillow then attempted to push up from the mattress with one hand. He cleared his shoulders before giving up and deflating with a puff and a moan. "Ooooooooo." he groaned pitifully.

"Hey there, you with us?" Fred asked, laying a hand on Dean's good shoulder. "Just stay still. Tell me what you need."

I need to see how good of a job you did. I need to see if the stitches are tight enough to hold should I thrash around or if they'll pop. Need to see if I've bled through. Need to see if there's any swelling. See if it's too soon to determine if there's an infection. I just need to see!

"Help me…sit up." he ordered. Doing so on his own wasn't going to happen and he doubted he'd be able to remain sitting without support but he couldn't see his leg lying down, so up he had to go!

"Are you sure? It's only been a couple of hours and…" Fred moved to slide an arm behind Dean's lower back and helped him sit up. "Okay, no…guess you're sure. Now what…..your leg? Oh, you want to see it? Okay…Will, move the towel." he could feel Dean shaking and tightened his one-arm hold. "There now, you just take it easy. Don't go over-doing it. I've got ya."

The change in elevation made him dizzier than he thought simply sitting up could ever make him. His vision was so out-of-whack, he swore he was viewing the room through a motel room door peep-hole. Oye…and no amount of blinking or wishing made him see any clearer either. He attempted to bend forward but his stomach clenched, heaving his chest into his throat so he stopped. A follow-up attempt to move his leg failed as well. Okay Dean, take a moment and regroup; ignore your arm and your shoulder and your back and your head and your blurry vision and think about your leg. Yes, your leg, for it's the most important problem at the moment.

Fine. Think about his leg? Okay. His Leg Fucking Hurt! There! How was that for thought? And it was hot – _he was hot_ – it throbbed and pulsed and pulsated with each and every beat of his heart, which if he thought about it, seemed to beat faster than it should. He felt it thump-a-thump thump against his chest. From what? Pain? Fear? Apprehension? The need to gear up for a fight? For he needed to avoid, prevent infection. He needed to keep control, couldn't let pain or illness take away his ability to fight for control. As long as he could fight, he'd be all right, otherwise…...he shuddered, letting the mark gain control and take over didn't bear thinking.

Hurry the fuck up Sammy. I'm trying, Lord, I'm trying but I need Betadine and Tramadol and someone who knows what the fuck they're doing. Yeah, yeah, I know. This situation I'm in? My fault, all my fault, but kick my ass later, right now, I need you to come take care of me.

"Keep 'em dry and clean. Can use soap. Pat dry. Let the air to 'em." Dean sagged against Fred's arm. "If they look red or swollen or ooze, apply hot compresses." Fred guided him down and let him go. He flopped for a bit, then settled. "I'll try not to itch."

"What?" Will asked. "What are you talking about? Fred? Do you know what he's talking about?"

"His stitches Will. He's talking about his stitches. Dean, think you can manage some tomato soup?" Fred asked. "You should eat something and it's low-salt, easy to swallow, nice and hot, warm you up."

"What does he mean by hot compresses?" Will asked. "Why would they itch?"

"So's chocolate pudding." Dean murmured. "Can make it with milk, you know." he let his eyes close. "Maybe…some water, is all."

"Okay, got some right here, just relax, let me hold your head." Fred said. "Don't strain...good, that's good. You just rest, get some sleep and don't worry about nothing. If we need you, we'll wake you up. Okay?"

Sure, sure. You do that. You wake me up to, you know, evacuate a town, fill sandbags, build a wall, chase a dog, rescue a kid, drown, be buried in mud…..yeah, on second thought, let me sleep.

And he did. He sank back into blessed oblivion but his mind refused to fall idle. It kicked into over-drive and ran amuck. He dreamed, he envisioned, and he did what he did the last time he was injured and alone, awash in pain and infection. He compiled a song while having a mark-fueled nightmare.

The secret side of me I never let you see  
I keep it caged, but I can't control it  
So stay away from me, the beast is ugly  
I feel the rage and I just can't hold it

It's scratching on the walls, in the closet, in the halls  
It comes awake, and I can't control it  
Hiding under the bed, in my body, in my head  
Why won't somebody come and save me from this, make it end.

I feel it deep within, it's just beneath the skin  
I must confess that I feel like a monster  
I hate what I've become, the nightmare's just begun  
I must confess that I feel like a monster

I, I feel like a monster.

My secret side I keep hid under lock and key  
I keep it caged, but I can't control it  
'Cause if I let him out he'll tear me up, break me down  
Why won't somebody come and save me from this, make it end.

I, I feel like a monster

It's hiding in the dark, it's teeth are razor sharp  
There's no escape for me, it wants my soul, it wants my heart  
No one can hear me scream, maybe it's just a dream  
Maybe it's inside of me, stop this monster

I, I feel like a monster**

He was changing and he knew it. Sam knew it. Dean knew Sam knew. He knew Sam knew he knew. What he didn't know was what to do about it. Not yet anyway, but soon.

***000***

Sam stowed his backpack and duffel in the boat and launched it. No one tried to stop him, no one tried to join him. Just as well, he didn't need or want the responsibility of anyone else. He rowed easily until the current caught the boat, then braced his feet, squared his shoulders and put his back into it.

"Okay Cas, I know you're on your way buddy, but help _me_ get to him now." he waited, holding the boat steady. "Which way?" the boat bucked and dipped, riding the current, then bobbed on a wave, nudging him to his right. "Hold on Dean, I'm coming." and with a grunt and a heave-ho, Sam dipped the oars and hauled ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** "Monster" is on the album Awake, by Skillet. It was written by Cooper, John / Brown, Gavin. **
> 
> .


	10. Chapter 10

"Now Fred, you just step yourself aside and let me take a turn." Millie tutted, flapping a towel at him to shoo him along. "Off with you now, give up your seat and let me take a load off my feet."

She expected an argument, if not an outright, flat refusal but Fred looked at her with sunken, bloodshot eyes and nodded. She suffered a pang of guilt; Fred was not a young man and putting the responsibility of Dean's care on his shoulders hadn't been fair. Oh, she'd enjoyed giving the boy his sponge bath, but cleaning him up hadn't been accompanied by stress and tension, fear and worry, doubt and second-guessing.

"Might feel good to rest my head on a pillow for a bit." Fred admitted, forcing her to recall her wool-gathering. "Thirty minutes ought to do it."

"You go find Gloria and get yourself something hot to eat. It's been hours and call me a silly worry-wart, but has he gotten worse this quick?"

"Seems so." Fred agreed. And he couldn't explain it. "Dunno. I've found he's calmer if you talk to him." he relinquished both his seat and the cloth he'd been using to dab and wipe the sweat from Dean's face and neck. "Doesn't much care for touching though."

"No sign of a boat or a chopper." Milled shared as she took Fred's seat. "Soon though, I'm sure." she added for Fred's benefit. He nodded and left Dean in her care. "Well now, my fine boy-toy." she clucked her tongue. "My, my, just look at you! Why, your hair's all wet and your lips are cracked and your eyelashes are all clumped together and just look at the skin around your eyes, all red and dry. Now, don't you worry any, I'll have you fixed up right proper in no time at all."

Dean floated in and out of consciousness. Woke up alert, woke up confused, didn't wake up at all. Time passed, time stood still. He didn't know, he didn't care, least he was only seeing one little old lady this time around. And, bonus here, he knew it wasn't Maggie! Ha, see there Sammy, I do too darn well know who Maggie is….was…..

He chased the cool cloth with his face, wanting the welcoming wetness on his forehead, his cheek, his chin, his other cheek. Oooh, yeah, get his neck – he tilted his chin up – and yes, behind his ears, oooooo-oh-aaah, soooo good. What? No, don't stop…I like that! Hey….oh, what's this? A cloth was folded, wet and cold, and left upon his forehead. He frowned, not too sure about whether or not he liked that.

"Now, let's take a gander at your leg."

Gander? She thought he was a goose? How could she think he resembled a goose? Now a peacock, sure; he did like to strut his stuff! Pfft, and they thought he was the one who was addled? Hee-hee.

"See how you're doing." she patted his cheek. "Just going to take a peek. You're ok."

Again with the patting! He didn't pay her any further attention though; too busy scrunching his nose and furrowing his eyebrows in an attempt to dislodge the cloth.

She didn't know what she expected to see when she pushed the blanket off his leg and removed the towel draped across the stitches but honestly, it wasn't the sight that greeted her. Maybe she thought she'd see black thread crisscrossed in white, hairy skin but what she saw was, red, angry bumps and lumps and bubbles. She adjusted her glasses and leaned closer, nose to knee and still, she didn't see any thread.

She sat back. Well, was that good or bad? Bad, she decided. Was there anything they could do about it? Should they?

"Bad?" Dean asked hoarsely. "My leg?"

"Well, hello there!" she greeted warmly. "I don't know." she saw no reason to lie. "Quite red and swollen."

"Oozing?" he croaked.

"Um…..no blood. I don't think…"

"Poke it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Poke. It."

She shrugged and with an arthritic finger that didn't pack much oomph, jabbed the wound in his leg, dead center. He yelped, unprepared for her prompt action. In fact, he howled. He'd expected her to pussy-foot around and hem and haw and…..holy shit, that fucking hurt! He cast a net out for his breath but it eluded him. In fact, it ran from him, laughing and taunting, remaining just out of reach.

"Here now! What are you doing to the boy?!" Will came running, Gene on his heels. "Fred know about this?"

"I say Millie, he sounds like he's breathing through labor contractions." Mabel brought up the end of the line. "What did you do to him?"

"What he told me to!" Millie exclaimed. "I poked it."

Heaving gave way to panting which eventually gave way to deep breaths and finally, heavy swallows and the occasional gulp until he was finally able to form words and speak.

"Not…quite so hard…..next time." he raised his shoulder to wipe his face on. "Mmmm. Shit….gimme a…..warning before you…..."

"Before she what?" Mabel demanded. "Millie, if you went after his feet…."

Millie gasped, outraged. "I did no such thing!"

"Is it oozing?" Dean was up on one elbow. Had he seen the stitches? He'd wanted to, had asked to, hadn't he? "Hurts."

"I'm sure it does." Mabel said but there was no sympathy in her tone. "Lie down."

"Oh, it's oozing alright." Will announced. "I say, I do believe it's infected."

"Not good." Dean muttered, falling onto his back. "Sammy here?"

"No son." Will have him a smile usually reserved for stupid people. "Would you like some water?"

"I don't feel good." Dean yawned, finally flinging the offending cloth from his forehead. Immediately, he wished for its return. He hadn't realized he was burning up and the cloth was what had kept the heat at bay. "Cas? Anytime now dude."

"Poor dear." Mabel retrieved the cloth, dipped it in the bowl of water, wrung it out and bathed his face. "Millie means well, she just gets over excited at times."

"I did not do anything to him!" Millie stated defensively. "He wanted to know if the stitches were oozing. I informed him there was no blood and he told me to poke him."

"And you did?" Gene said, astounded. "Millie, you know he ain't right in the head. Surely, he didn't mean for you to do any such thing!"

"Enough." Dean swallowed, stilling Mabel's hand and directing the cloth back to his forehead. "My head's just fine. Sammy said so."

"You like that, do you?"

"Well, of course he does." Millie sniffed. "Why do you think I laid it there in the first place?"

"Then why did he just throw it?"

"It probably was no longer cool."

Sammy, I swear, if you don't hurry up and rescue me from these well-meaning do-gooders, I will give you a crew-cut. Or a reverse Mohawk. And dye it purple. And draw on your scalp with magic marker.

He heard them continue to argue but he was too tired to care and on that last thought, he passed out. He really needed to stop doing that 'cause if they thought to keep count how many times he did so and told Sammy, a crown or two wouldn't do, he'd need dentures.

***000***

After seven nights and seven days of rowing at sea, Sam finally touched land. He was so exhausted when he hauled the Ark out of the water, he took a seat, cracked open a bottle of water and took a moment to eat a power bar. He needed to organize his wits, map out a plan and give his aching back and quivering shoulder muscles some time to adjust to finally being on solid ground.

The wind, the rain, the current, the constant movement of debris hadn't abated during his journey at sea. He'd fought it all, the entire way, for however long he'd been out there, but here he was and he had to go. He finished the power bar, capped the water, chugged some whiskey for strength and stamina, shouldered the backpack, picked up the duffel and gained his feet. He held a flashlight in his other hand and began a visual search in the dark for the road that had damn well better lead him to the church and take him to his brother.

Aimless, he wandered. Sometimes, the water was ankle-deep, other times it was up to his knees, once it was up to his waist and he was forced to hold the duffel over his head. That made his arm ache and the added strain tired him out. It also pissed him off. Anger warred with worry. Concern topped ire. Frustration beat affection. Love reigned supreme.

And he wandered.

Once he stopped feeling sorry for his situation, curbed his anger, reeled in his frustration and focused on where he was, he realized he had walked in circles – duh Sam – but was now walking up hill, on a road, towards….he stopped and squinted; raised a hand to shield his eyes, yeah, fat lot of good that did, but yes, indeed….towards a light.

Finally!

He picked up his pace, slogging through water that was calf deep. He approached the church at a jog, brought up short by the wall of sandbags that he followed completely around, stopping every five bags or so to flash his light over and down, pleased to see the ground on the other side wasn't under water. Reaching where he'd started, he chose his spot, tossed both the duffel and backpack over the wall then easily, if a bit clumsily – for he was quite tired – vaulted over after them.

He took the time to patrol the yard inside the protective wall, looking for threats or signs that all was not well until he was satisfied no evil lurked. Oh for hot coffee laced with vodka, dry clothes, a warm fire, the flames licking at his sock-covered toes and perhaps a blanket to drape around his shoulders and a towel for his hair. Yeah, okay, the tent hadn't offered much in the way of comfort but it had been warm and dry and food had been plentiful and unlimited, if geared towards the appetites of kids.

He was close, he knew it. Until he'd laid eyes on the church, he'd been half afraid he wouldn't find it. The wall hadn't been erected by 'villagers'. Not by themselves anyway. It was Dean's work and Sam knew that too. That meant Dean had been capable of helping build it. But where was he now? The church was, for the time-being anyway, safe from the flood waters and as he walked around the building, the more convinced he was that he'd find his brother inside.

He sniffed…..fire; a wood fire, nothing to panic over. The people would need to heat water and cook food, though in this rain, how did they keep a fire going? He doubted the church boasted a wood stove. Odd though, that there weren't people outside keeping watch, checking on the level of the water, ensuring nothing rammed into the wall and dislodged a bag or two. Sam paused, Dean wouldn't let that go unless he wasn't able to command….

"DEAN!"

He burst into the hall, a bellowing, ranting, wild, wet, muddy giant who scared the children, caused the dogs to riot, the cats to hiss and the ladies to scream. Chaos erupted. Women and children scattered. Some tried to hide, some ran, some were struck immobile. Men armed themselves with whatever was within arm's reach and stood united to confront the unwelcome, raving lunatic who had dared invade their sanctuary.

Sam paused, sanity returning. He could probably take on the determined yet sorely lacking 'guard' of men, but he was tired and while he doubted they'd be able to take him down, he really didn't want to put his strength and coordination to the test. He sat the duffel down and raised both hands in a show of surrender.

"Not another step." he was warned and a frying pan was brandished at his head.

He rolled his eyes; a frying pan? Seriously? Oye-vay.

"How dare you barge in here and frighten the wits out of everyone?" someone raged at him. "There are children here!"

"Try knocking! Ever hear of that! A simple hello would suffice." he was scolded. "Who are you? Where did you come from? How did you get here?"

They had wits? Really?

"Would you like something hot to drink?"

Sam blinked, momentarily stunned. Say what?

"I'm Gloria."

"Glo! Back away from him."

He didn't have time for this! Dean was within hearing distance, he was sure of it, so why hadn't he come to see what all the commotion was about? Giving in to his rising panic, he tucked the flashlight into his pocket, retrieved his duffel and stepped forward.

"Oh no, no you don't."

They came at him. No one was intent on violence but Sam had neither the patience nor the desire to engage in conversation or indulge in lengthy explanations. He pushed back and chaos once again erupted. Men swung at him with pots and pans and umbrellas and….what the hell was that?! Little old ladies pummeled his back with balls of yarn. He stepped on something that sqqeeeaaakkked and the hairiest rat Sam had ever seen snipped and snarled at his feet. Oh, not a rat, a dog and apparently Sam had stepped on its toy. His other foot was attacked and his boot laces were engaged in a tug of war and…..they were losing! His foot slid on the slippery floor and unless he put forth a serious effort, his knees were going to greet the floor!

He didn't wish to hurt anyone. They were just people. All he wanted was to finally lay eyes on his brother and hug him if he were hurt, slug him if he wasn't. And…..good God! Was that a cat on his head? Oh, he was going to knock some heads together! This village wasn't missing its idiot. Their village was comprised of all the idiots the other villages had lost!

"What the BLAZES is going on in HERE?!"

Sam turned to confront the newcomer who came through a doorway that led out of the hall he'd entered on the opposite side, the church, maybe? His elbow ached from connecting with a coffee urn – yes, coffee urn, who knew such a petite woman had the strength to lift and hit him with it? – and he absently rubbed it.

"Will?" he stammered. "Back off." he warned the gaggle of villagers. Christ, he didn't need this now. "I'm out of patience and good will and one more person tries to hit me, I'm fighting back!"

"Sam? Sam, is that you? Really?" Will approached him without fear. "By God, how are you here? Here now, stand down folks. He means us no harm. Jamie, for the last time, control that dog."

Sam hopped on one foot in an attempt to dislodge the teeth still firmly attached to his laces. "Where's my brother?"

"I don't believe it! Chopper? They took up a chopper in this weather? Where's the rescue crew?" he walked around Sam as though he expected Sam to be hiding that very crew behind him. "How many came with you?"

"Will, I've had a very bad day. I want my brother and I want him now." he growled back at the dog who had the audacity to growl at him. "Would someone please retrieve this dog and remove his teeth from my boot?"

"That's Bernard." a boy darted out and grabbed the dog who was floppy as a mop. "He doesn't mean you any harm."

"My brother?" Sam prompted. Now free of all canines and felines, he picked up his duffel and motioned for Will to march on and lead him to Dean. "Will? Now!" he softened his tone. "Please?"

"Yeah, uh, sure…..but see…...where's the….?" he swallowed at the lethal look leveled on him. "Okay, sure, sure, in there, right this way." Will waved a hand towards the door he had just come through. "How did you get here again?" he asked but again, Sam didn't answer. "So Sam, you should know there's been a slight mishap."

"Yeah, I know. Mudslide. The, uh, town, as you call it, is gone."

"Oh." Will said stupidly. "No. See….."

"The sheriff…." Sam said no more. A man with one arm, two elderly ladies who looked remarkably similar and a short rotund man turned to face him and when they did, Sam saw the cot behind them and who laid on it.

"Will? What's happening? Did a cat get loose? Not Bernard or Jamie again, is it?"

"Who's he?"

Mishap? Had he heard right? They called this a mishap? This, this….this? They referred to this pale, sweaty, trembling, obviously injured man – who happened to be his brother – as a slight mishap? Heads were going to roll!

"Hi-ya Sammy." Dean drawled sluggishly. "You made it." he shifted his weight with a grimace. "Finally." another wince and he abandoned the idea of getting up and greeting his brother and laid still, giving Sam a limp wrist wave instead. "How'd you get 'ere? Zip-line? Hovercraft?"

"Boat."

Dean made a face, coughing on a wince. "So…mun….dane." he swallowed but the moan wasn't held back. "Expected better from you."

"You're damn lucky I'm too tired to kick your ass." Sam shrugged out of the backpack and it hit the floor beside the duffel. "What the hell happened to 'stay at the camp'?"

"Got bored."

Sam said nothing, had no reply, just stood and let his eyes see their fill while resisting his hands demands to feel for themselves, the warm skin and hearty pulse of his alive, if not exactly kicking, sibling. "What did you do?" Sam asked finally, hands twitching but firmly on his hips.

Not, what happened, are you all right, was anyone hurt, is everyone safe, but what did you do, Dean thought crossly. Could his tone be any more accusatory?

"Who are you?" one of the women asked.

"This here is Sam." Will supplied. "Dean's brother."

"No! Really? How did he get here?"

Much to Dean's horror, and he had to admit it was his own fault, for he had let his guard down and taken his eyes off his brother, Sam palmed his cheek, then his forehead, frowned over the obvious evidence of a fever and reached for the blanket Dean clutched to his chin. Dean held tight, reluctant to relinquish his hold and reveal all to Sam. Funny, he'd wanted him here and now that he was, he wished Sammy far away.

"Someone start talking." Sam ordered, playing tug of war. Neither brother had full strength, but oh yeah, Sam had the advantage and easily won. "JESUS CHRIST DEAN! What the FUCK?"

"Here now, language! Language, young man! You are in the home of our good Lord!" he was reprimanded.

"30 seconds, a 100 words or less or Dean, so help me…..." Sam's four hands and twenty fingers poked and prodded from tip-top of his head, to his tippy-toes. Dean scowled and fidgeted, slapped and swatted but Sam had his way. "What have you taken?"

"Uh…..there was a souped-up buggy ride and an one-armed man and it was raining and no one knew how to fill a sand bag then the earth shook and I thought avalanche again but mud came and…." he was busy counting words in his head and paying Sam no attention. Were souped-up and one-armed one word words or two word words?

"Tylenol." Fred answered. "We did what we could. He helped us but…."

Flashlight in his teeth, Sam removed bandages, lifted Dean off his back, sat him up, turned him sideways, raised his arm and laid him back down. Dean ducked from the penlight beam Sam flashed in his eyes, murmuring his head was ok, to which Sam tersely replied, 'yeah, 'cause you know, no severe head injury or anything.'

The five villagers, as Sam labeled and called them, stood and watched. Fred answered Sam's questions and offered information when Dean remained silent. Finally, Sam sat down on the cot at Dean's hip and settled the duffel bag on his lap, his full attention now focused on his brother's leg.

"What did you cut yourself on?" Sam asked. "And don't you dare say you don't know." he twisted around to get a closer look. "You smell…good." he paused. "What the…...?" he caught the disapproving glare of Mother Theresa. "Frack?" he suggested and she nodded her approval. "Frack!"

"He didn't cut himself." Fred was fiddling with something in his hands that he thrust out for Sam's inspection. "This was stuck in his leg. We removed it at his direction. Steel, iron, metal, dunno….sharp though."

"We gave him a lavender bath." the other woman, Sister Supreme, sniffed. "Couldn't very well leave him dirty, now could we?"

"You gave him a…..they gave you a bath?" he quirked a dubious eyebrow whose motion, despite the mud, was still visible. "A bed bath? How dirty were you?"

Dean gave him a sheepish grin and shrugged. Sam took the object to examine then slipped it into his coat pocket.

"You know Dean, this is on you." Sam tore a package open with his teeth. "It got old a long time ago; being stranded in storms, in cabins or campers or B&B's – a fucking well, without electricity, with strange people. It's the same old trope with you."

"Not all my fault." Dean pouted. "OW! Take it easy! Ow, Ow, oW, oW….YOW!" he yelped and howled and yelped. "Have a care!"

"Hospitals and clinics and women I don't know." Sam ranted on. "What kind of thread did they use?"

"Uh." dismayed, his face fell and he tried to think, then he brightened. He'd chosen the thread, hadn't he? Yes! Yes he had and he opened his mouth to tell Sam so.

"Really Dean, black thread? That's it? That's all you got?"

Dean frowned, had he said that? "It was dark." he offered lamely and Sam didn't know if he meant the color of the thread or the room had lacked sufficient light.

"How do you get yourself into shit like this?" Sam muttered. "Let go." he tugged on the blanket that Dean had somehow snagged back and covered up with. "Dean, hey, none of that now. Come on. Let go!"

"I'm tired Sam." he shifted his weight uneasily. "Can we do this later?"

"Suck it up dude, 'cause if I don't like those stitches, they're coming out. And no, we can't do this later! How well did they clean your leg before they stitched you up? What did they use? Who's in charge?"

"Me."

"You? You didn't sew…..no, of course you didn't…."

"Sam, hey, leave it alone, they did the best they could."

"Their best?" Sam sneered. "This is their best?"

"Yeah, they pulled me out of the river and…..."

"Pulled you out of the river? What the hell were you doing in the river Dean? Care to explain that one?" he waited. "Still waiting. Dean?" he prompted, patting his brother's cheek. "Hey."

"…..ehrm…careless moment." chastised, he ducked his head. "Stop that!" he snapped irritably. He'd had enough being pat-pat-patted.

"You? Careless?" Sam snorted. "Care to try again?"

"There was a dog and…"

"A dog?" oh, but his voice dripped doubt. "What about infection Dean? And secondary drowning? And bacteria? And tetanus? And….don't, don't you dare…..their 'best' left you with skin torn off. Torn, Dean! Have you seen your shoulder? Your back?" Sam paused. "Pulled you out of the river." he repeated flatly. "Rope burns, right? RIGHT!"

"YES!"

"You came here to build a sand bag wall. You did. And you finished it before you got hurt, so why were you back at the river?"

"Um…..mudslide?"

"Your skin was shredded by a rope Dean. I have to live with you, ride in the car with you and you aren't going to use deodorant for weeks."

"Yeah, but I'll still shower." Sam wasn't appeased so he tried again. "Well see, the scissors were small and not very sharp and Fred, he did his best to sharpen them but he didn't have a stone and….." he trailed off, wow, oh wow, but there was steam coming out of his brother's nostrils. No, seriously, literal steam. "Aah…..the first aid kit here is pathetic." he offered.

Sam pinched his eyes shut, fingered his dirty hair and blew his breath out. He felt the slight tug on the denim at his hip and reached to reassure his brother everything was okay. He grabbed Dean's hand and squeezed, seeking a return gesture and though he got a squeeze back, it was weak and Sam could feel him trembling. His brother's skin was also hot and dry.

"Sorry." Sam crumbled like a cookie, eyes going soft and pooling with emotion and he conceded a bit later wouldn't hurt. "I'm sorry….let me get cleaned up, get something hot to drink and some time to talk to Will, get some answers, okay?"

"Gonna need Cas."

"He's coming." Sam assured him. "Here, take these."

"Not too strong." Dean warned. "Haven't had anything to eat."

"No." Sam said. "Don't worry, I've got you."

Dean let Sam support his now aching head and took the pills with the offered water then relaxed. Sam didn't move until Dean was asleep, then allowed Will to lead him off in search of something to drink and a place to wash up and change.

***000***

Castiel returned the pump, closed the gas door and climbed into the car. Humans preferred this method of travel? Really? Stop, gas, go. Stop, gas, go. He turned the engine over, shifted into drive and pulled out. He'd heard Sam, knew where to go, knew he'd be there soon but he was tired and soon, he'd need to rest. Wasn't that new? And he hated it. He'd spent an enormous amount of mental energy directing the brothers to the Scout camp and had given himself a headache - a headache! - helping Sam navigate the rivers currents. He still had to heal Dean as best as he could, and that of course, was after getting to him.

"I'm coming guys, hang on."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, where did my summer go? Hell, where'd my beloved fall go? Today, it's 60, tomorrow...barely 40...
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving All! Enjoy your Turkey Day.

Sam didn't want to linger, certainly didn't intend to but his good intentions had a way of getting lost. Will left him in the capable hands of Gloria, and she was soon joined by Mabel and Millie and once they assured him Fred remained with Dean, he submitted to their determined and well-meaning fussing and damn, it felt good! They brought him hot water and hot coffee with a promise of hot soup and warm bread with a side of tasty cheese. Comfort food but he wasn't complaining.

They tutted and tsked and clucked as they puttered and pattered about in the small restroom, filling the sink from pails of hot water, laying out towels and washcloths and offering him a comb and brush. They argued, they shoved, they shooed – each other. Sam sat on the toilet in his wet, muddy clothes and let them flap and squawk, 'cause – again – damn it felt good to be fussed over. But finally, cold and discomfort made themselves known and he rounded the doddering trio up and urged them towards the door. With longing looks and brash suggestions, they grudgingly gave him privacy to remove his clothes, bird-bath as thoroughly as possible given his limited accommodations and dress in the clean clothes he'd carried in his backpack that were amazingly dry.

His hair toweled dried, he sat down at a table in the hall and accepted a bowl of soup with a tired smile of thanks. The bread was indeed warm, the coffee hot and strong, the cheese smooth and creamy and he was served with smiles. He sure could get used to being waited on like this. He ignored the curious stares, whispered conversations and ate his fill. When had such a simple meal ever tasted so good?

"Anything else I can get you?

He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to grab a pillow and crash on the floor next to the cot where his brother slept but he knew it would be awhile before he'd be able to do that. Past experience told him he needed to eat first, get his head together, stop his hands from shaking, gain control of his emotions and inner turmoil and focus on his brother's needs, not his own wants. It's what Dean always did for him.

"More coffee." he held his mug out and it was topped-off. "Thank you." he sipped and savored and sipped. "Time is it?"

"Going on noon."

Wow, a whole day had passed since leaving Dean? Really? Wow! How long had it taken him to get here? Would he ever know? Did he really care? He frowned, thinking. One day had passed? _Really?_ That was it? He cupped the mug with both hands and pressed its warmth against his forehead. It'd been a measly five-hour drive home. Five! Only five! Ha. _Only._ God, how he hated that word.

"More soup?" he was offered and he shook his head, setting his empty mug down. "Cheese? Anything?"

"No thanks." he pushed back from the table and stood up, toes curling in his socks. His boots were water resistant, not water proof and they were so soaked he hadn't been able to be bring himself to put them back on. Hopefully he'd find willow bark in their first aid kit so he wouldn't have to go outside in search of a willow tree! He was warm and dry and wanted to remain that way. There was also the issue of leaving Dean..….letting him out of his sight once arriving at the church had been hard enough and he'd conceded to doing so only because Dean was still within hearing distance.

Yawning, he made his way back to his brother's side, where Fred did indeed remain. Sam waved him back onto his chair when he made to rise and pulled another metal folding chair close to the cot. "Okay, I feel human now." Sam gave Fred a tired grin. "Now tell me what happened? From the beginning and ignore anything Dean told you not to tell me. I promise I'm not going to hang kids and drown puppies."

Fred studied Sam as he recalled Dean's warning not to reveal to the man before him what had caused his injury. "Jamie's dog somehow got outside the wall and ran for home. Jamie followed and…" he blurted out before he had a chance to second guess his decision. Now, what had made him do that? "Oh-oh. Oh, no." no, no, oh, he did not like the look on the other man's face.

"And Dean rescued both kid and dog from the river." Sam finished with a sigh. "Same ole, same old. Rinse and repeat."

Encouraged that Sam didn't blow up or freak out, Fred felt confident enough to continue. "The mud was so unstable and it shifted but we had him on a rope and….." now the boy appeared so despondent, Fred felt the need to say something to make him feel better. "We never would have got the wall built without him and folks wouldn't have thought to leave their homes so soon and with the town under mud, all those lives would have been lost. And we here would have attempted to rescue anyone trapped so we have him to thank….."

Sam held a hand up. "I get it, don't say anymore." he rubbed his forehead, wishing for a hot shower, comfy sofa and a warm blanket to cuddle under. "It's just….I don't have much in my life. Always on the road, dangerous job, few friends, it's not fair to expect a wife to sit home and wait for…um….that phone call." his eyes roamed over Dean and he tucked the blanket better around his hurt shoulder. "He's all I got and I kinda hang on to that, you know?"

Fred nodded, dipped the cloth, wrung it out and dabbed at Dean's face. Okay, not fair to a wife, Fred gave him that point and agreed, but what about fairness to a partner or a brother? There was nothing to say to that so he simply patted Sam's knee and offered Sam the cloth. Sam quirked an eyebrow and shook his head. Fred shrugged, happy to keep the cloth and continue to perform the small gesture of comfort.

"He seems to like it. Don't know if it does him any good but keeps him quiet." Fred gave Sam time to respond but didn't get a word. "Maybe he just likes not being alone, you know?" Fred chuckled. "I let the ladies at him but they done did scare him. They cleaned him up right good though." still nothing, so he decided to change the subject. "Your brother knows his way around crisis and injury."

"It's our job." Sam said absently, finally giving in to his hands desire and reaching out to touch the warm skin of his brother. Not to man-handle or search for injury or force him to do what he wanted, just to hold and have a connection. He wondered how Fred knew they were brothers but was too tired to ask.

"Law?" Fred pushed cautiously. "And you're both in the same field?"

"Uh…..branch of it…..yeah. We're…partners."

Fred sensed Sam's reluctance to discuss yet another subject and pressed no further. "Boy's got some scars." he mentioned tentatively. "Tattoo's not the kind I'd expect to find on a man like him. Flower?"

Oh, he had a lot more at one time, Sam thought, smiling fondly as he intertwined his fingers with his brother's. "Yeah, he hasn't led an easy life." his smile faded as bitter memories reminded him how Dean had lost those scars. He ignored the comment about the tattoo. How did one explain anti-demon possession marks? "Hey." he squeezed Dean's fingers, waiting for and receiving a return squeeze. "Dean?"

"Been in the hospital a time or two." Fred continued, watching as Dean stirred. "Hey now, you gonna wake up? Hmmmm? Know your brother is here, don't ya?" but Dean settled down and didn't awaken. "Okay, guess not."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, he has." oh, and died, but not going there. "Never gets any easier and I know there's always going to be a next time." he let go of Dean's hand, wouldn't do to have Dean wake up and be caught holding hands. Yeah, time to move on Sam. He moved the blanket and flashed his light over the stitches, sitting on the edge of his chair for a better look. "Damn."

"Bad? He told us to apply hot compresses but didn't seem to do much good."

"How hot and for how long?" Sam asked, snagging his duffel and sitting back in his chair. "What did you use to make it?"

"Uh….hot water and a soft towel." Fred offered. "We do it wrong? It's what we had and….."

"No." Sam shook his head. "No." he set a bottle of white willow bark and a bottle of turmeric powder on the cot next to Dean's hip. No, with Dean, one's best was never enough. "It's not you, it's him. He's always difficult."

Fred watched, first in curiosity, then in outright awe as Sam continued to withdraw items from the bag on his lap that was nowhere deep or big enough to possibly contain everything he was pulling out. He moved closer to gawk.

"That's a mighty curly straw." Fred commented. "Guessin' this here is your first aid kit?" he looked up and Sam nodded confirmation. "Ah, can I ask what a straw that big's doin' in a first aid kit?"

"It's my, 'I know he's feeling better test'. I make him drink things he doesn't like or want and I know he's feeling better when he asks for it."

Now that there was affection Fred saw and heard and it warmed his old heart to know two brothers could be so close. "Like what?" he asked.

"Tea." Sam smiled.

There were packets of dried leafs and small bundles of linen wrapped seeds, a mortar and pestle, stoppered bottles of colored liquids, baggies of weeds, gauze, cheesecloth, numerous square white cloths – Fred reached out to touch one – that there was the softest linen he'd ever felt, tea bags, and that there was honey, small glass bottles with more powders and seeds and dried leafs and weeds. Good God, the supply of bottles and bags and packets was never-ending!

"Herbs." Sam explained, answering Fred's quizzical look. "Hasn't always been modern day medicine, you know." Fred continued to watch in amazement as Sam organized everything in quick order. "It's much easier today to buy what's needed already bottled, you know? Don't have to forage out in the wilds and yonder to collect what you need. Expensive though."

"Huh-uh." Fred whistled. "You know about all this?" he waved a hand to encompass it all: Dean, the duffel, the supplies, the injuries…..everything. "You and he both. This kind of survival? I mean he built a sand-bag wall, he took charge and the folks followed and you somehow got here in a rowboat and no rescue crew has followed yet."

"Kinda hafta." he nodded at Dean. "With him in my life….never know what I'm gonna run into." yeah, don't count on a rescue crew anytime soon. Not when Mother Nature still had her girdle twisted.

"I gather he knows as much as you do? Guessin' you both hafta, huh? Know how to take care of each other?" Fred shook his head. This generation today baffled him. "The stitches okay? Never sewn on skin before. Made me kinda nervous." he gave a wry laugh. "Hell, listen to me. What am I saying? Ain't never sewed on nothing before, ever."

"Aah, so you set them." Sam inspected them a second time. "They're okay, not too tight, holding okay." for now, Sam thought, wondering how much longer they'd be stranded in the middle of nowhere and what the hell was taking Cas so long. "You did good."

"Infected though." Fred commented. "I'll tell you, never want to do anything like that again. He handled it okay, we didn't." he gave a rueful chuckle. "Swear that blood was purple, he said he'd nicked a vein but it weren't nothing to worry about."

"It's just the way he is." Sam worked his jaw, though his teeth wanted to clench. Nicked a vein? He was going to kill him.

"So, you're not gonna take 'em out?" Fred asked. "Not sure why he had us put 'em in in the first place. Didn't know if he needed em'. Went on his say so."

"No. Don't wanna put him through that unless I have to." Sam set about mixing and stirring and mashing and sorting. So, Dean had been aware of how much blood he'd lost or had the potential to lose. "And you stitched him up 'cause it's not good if he loses too much blood."

"How much is too much though?"

"Dean's different." Sam repacked his duffel then set it on the floor. "Could I get him another blanket?"

"Sure, sure." Fred nodded. "For him, the ladies will take from the kids if they need to."

Sam opened his mouth to object but before he could say a word, Fred waved him off with a grin. "Not gonna deprive the little rug rats, just jestin' ya."

"I need some hot water. Enough to soak a towel or two."

Fred nodded. "Gotcha. Gene, go be useful."

Sam blinked, raising his head to look around. Gene silently danced from foot to foot in the doorway leading to the hall. Sam had been so focused on Dean and selecting what he needed, he hadn't known Gene had come in. Sure, way to protect your brother there, Sam.

"Um, I need to make tea." he paused but Gene nodded and toddled off. Sam frowned, a bit unsure whether or not the man would remember he'd been sent on three errands. Or hell, if he even knew it _was_ three errands.

Sam opened packets, produced the biggest Q-tips Fred had ever seen and generously smeared brown goo all over the stitches and well beyond. He crushed some weed into dust in his mortar with his pestle, set it aside, opened the bottle of turmeric powder, added some water until he'd made a paste that he dabbed generously on the stitches, covered the wound with a thin layer of gauze, sprinkled the dust from the mortar, layered some more gauze and soaked one of the square white cloths in the pail of steaming water Gene had sent in, then laid it on top of the gauze over the stitches.

"That water's damn hot. Doesn't it burn your hands?"

"I'm used to it."

"What's that brown stuff?" Fred asked curiously. "Sure used a lot of it."

"Betadine." Sam replied. "Helps prevent infection." and where Dean's concerned, you can never use enough.

"Little late, don't you think?" Fred asked. Sam shrugged. "What's that you crushed up?"

"Plantain and this is turmeric powder."

"So, you made a poultice."

"To draw out the infection, yes." Sam replied, hand palming Dean's forehead. "Hopefully." he scowled when Dean frowned and tossed his head. "Cut it out." he scolded, setting everything on the floor except two bottles that he kept in his hand and stood up. "I need to make some tea." he bent over and picked up the plastic bear-shaped bottle of honey. "If you could stay with him awhile longer…?" he paused, waiting for Fred's agreement that came readily.

"Sure." Fred had a blanket in his hands and shook it out to spread over Dean, tucking in one side while Sam tucked the other. "Don't mind at all."

"Then I'll bed down here on the floor next to him and you can go grab some sleep."

"I'll have a pillow and a blanket or two found for you."

Sam nodded and found his way to the hall's kitchen. Aah, gas stove fed by propane. So, no oven but burners that worked when lit by a match and over in a corner was a wood burning fireplace. So, the country bumpkins were prepared to make do without electricity. Wow.

"Water's on for tea!" one of the twins chirped. "Need a mug?"

"Please." he unscrewed the top from a bottle of white willow bark , judged the amount of water that was thankfully in a sauce pan rather than a teapot and shook the bottle until a fair amount of its contents had been added to the water.

"What is that?"

Sam sighed. Did everyone need to know everything and did no one know anything? "Willow bark. It's a natural pain reliever, fever reducer with the same ingredients as aspirin. It takes longer to work but has longer lasting effects."

"Can't you just give him aspirin?"

"No." Sam all but snapped then backed off. "Sorry."

"How do you make it?"

"Boil it for 10 minutes, then let it steep for about 20 or 30 minutes. The herb leafs will settle on the bottom and it'll turn red. I'll strain it, add some honey and make him drink it."

"What are these?"

"Cinnamon sticks. I'll add them once it boils and let the flavor steep as well. Otherwise he'll complain it tastes like bark from a tree." and he wouldn't be wrong, Sam smirked, though he really had no idea at what age in life Dean had been when he'd been tempted to gnaw on a tree to know how it tasted.

"Can't you just add milk and sugar?" Jamie popped up, Bernie in his arms. "You know, like a normal person?"

Sam glared and the elderly twin slowly moved the child behind her back. "Nothing about my brother is normal." and yes, he could add milk and sugar, as he himself drank it, but Dean didn't like tea no matter how it was flavored. Though Sam had more success getting Dean to drink the quantity Sam wanted him to when it was flavored with cinnamon and honey, it was always a hard-fought battle.

"Here now Jamie, you run off." she gave the boy a gentle push. "Where is your mother?"

Yeah, seriously, where was his mother? Sam thought uncharitably, did she never watch the boy?

"But, Miss Millie, my mom…"

"Hush child. Go find Gloria then….be off with you."

Millie promised to watch the tea while Sam went and prepared a place to sleep. His boots were next to the fireplace and he hoped they dried quickly, should he need to go outside in search of Castiel. For that was the only reason he'd leave his brother.

***000***

Dean stirred, images of being chased by a one-armed man twirling a lasso and fleeing hot pokers brought him awake with a gasp and a startled jerk. Ow….oh lordy-lo…..whew, man, he was hot. And wet. He wanted to wipe his face, but his arms were tied down and wouldn't obey his command to move. Huh. Well, not good. He cautiously moved his head, looking for a threat he didn't find. Dear Lord, what mess had he gotten himself into this time and would he be able to get himself out of it without Sam knowing?

And why was he so hot? And why wouldn't his arms move? And was a boulder sitting on his leg? And why was everything fuzzy and hazy and...

"Dean? Hey, want you to wake up." sounded Sam's very near voice. "Dean? Come on."

So, negative on hiding from Sam. Dean groaned, he didn't want to wake up. He wanted to be left alone and allowed to sleep.

"I know." came the soft reply, tinged with regret and understanding. "Sorry."

Dean sniffed. His nose wrinkled, then scrunched up in disgust. Oh hell no. If there was any lingering doubt that Sam had arrived, the scent of that damned tea vanquished it.

"Yeah, I know, I know."

"No…want…none." Dean heaved, stomach clenching in anticipation. "Don't…..like it."

"I know you don't. Just a little bit, okay? I flavored it the way you like."

Sure, that was just like Sam. Bribery. The little shit always used bribery. And what did he mean; the way Dean liked? He didn't like that tea no matter what Sam did to it to make it edible.

"You gotta Dean. Cas's on his way, but I don't know when he's going to get here."

"Not before the rescue crews." Gene chimed in. "They should be here any time now."

Yeah, yeah…..don't bet on it, Dean thought irritably. Sam had moved Mud Mountain and Meandering River to reach him and Cas would do no less. Rescue crews though…...well…..they didn't have a guardian angel.

"You wanna sit up?" Sam was tugging and pulling and pushing and pulling and finally, Dean's arms were free. "Sorry, but it's your own fault, you know." he let Dean sag against the wall, pulled back, dipped down and was far too close to Dean's face for comfort. "No, I'll leave you alone." he accurately read the relief to cross Dean's face. "For now." he clarified. "I've got plenty to say and say it I will, but it'll wait until you're feeling better."

"Can't…" Dean licked his lips, now dry and split. "I…rather…water?" say it he would, Dean didn't doubt it and he'd probably let his fists do most of the talking too. "Or…...anything..." he swallowed, mouth dry. "...anything else...that's not...tea? That tea?"

"Tea Dean. This tea. Either drink it or I'll feed it to you with a spoon." Sam's tone brooked no further argument and Dean obediently raised his head to the mug that was at his lips, horrified at the thought of being spoon-fed by his brother in front of the others. Or worse, being turned over to the care of the twins who were overly fond of touching. "You're running a fever, lost blood, your leg is infected and…."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean growled, baring his teeth. "My fault, all my fault. Always my fault." he let his eyes close and took a sip. It was hot, bitter and tasted like bark from a tree but the added sweetness of honey and bite of cinnamon made it drinkable, if not preferable.

"When you do shit like this latest stunt you pulled, yeah _, it is_ all your fault." Sam scolded but without heat or anger. They would both come later, right now, it was enough to be here with his brother; to have him panting and sweating and hurting but breathing. "I've got it." he held the mug steady and allowed Dean time to blow on the tea that wasn't really all that hot. "Nuh-uh." he cautioned when Dean pulled away. "More. Come on, you have to drink more."

Dean made a face then pulled a pout but Sam wasn't moved. He stared back, face reflecting grim determination that promised if necessary, force would be used. Finally, after feeling like he'd consumed 44 ounces of blah bark, Sam was satisfied and rewarded him with water.

"You doing okay?" Sam asked. "I really need some sleep, so if you gotta get up, tell me now." he paused. "Or can you wait for Cas?"

"Get up?" Fred repeated startled. "On his feet? With that leg? You can't be serious?"

"He ain't dying." Sam said flippantly, praying he spoke the truth. "And he still has two legs, he needs to piss, he can get up and walk to the bathroom."

"Ain't happening Sammy." Dean panted. Drat, now that his attention had been called to it, he did need to pee. "Ain't got no clothes on."

"I'm sure the ladies won't mind." Fred chuckled. "I'll get a coffee can or something."

"Yeah." Gene agreed, once again having appeared without Sam's knowledge. "The bathroom's at the other end of the hall."

Like it was oh-so-far, Sam thought irritably, though to be fair, it might as well be a football field for an injured man running a fever with a bum leg. And Sam still didn't know just how bad Dean was hurt either.

"Can you walk to the door?" Sam conceded. "Just ten steps away." he bunched the blankets in his fists and tugged. Dean reluctantly allowed their removal but raised green pools of misery to shame Sam. "Yes…yes, you can keep your blasted 'blankie'." Sam rolled his eyes in a huff. "You get way too attached to shit."

"You want him to…to….to….. _pee outside_?" Gene gasped, aghast. "That's, that's…..that's…well, that ain't right! It...it...that's just wrong!"

Yeah, see Mr. One-Arm Man, he does it like, only all the time, Sam sighed, rubbing his forehead wearily. Now fed, warm, mostly clean, dressed in dry clothes and his frantic panic to reach his brother quelled and under control, he was ready to drop from exhaustion and physical exertion.

"Not like he hasn't done it before." but Sam once again gave way to what Dean wanted. And Sam knew what he wanted, he didn't have to say it, Sam just knew.

Sitting upright, away from the support of the wall, Dean knew he wouldn't be walking anywhere without help, and really, did he need to? He was dizzy and nauseous and – _in pain_. Now that Sam was here and in charge, there was no need to hold it together.

"Huh." he licked his lips, then bit on the bottom one. "Gimme a minute." he tried to move his arm and broke out in a fresh sweat that left him shivering. "Say uh, Sam. How…..'bout you go find me some clothes and let Fred here lend a hand with that coffee can." he panted breathlessly, chest rattling with the effort to string together a sentence. "Ow." his eyes closed and his chin dipped to his chest.

"If you need help…." Sam began.

"SAM!" Dean yelped weakly. He couldn't explain it but somehow it just seemed easier – normal – to accept help from an older man. "Go away."

"I'm making a list." Sam warned, retreating to the door and shoving Gene through it. "And for every item on it, I'm giving you a bruise."

***000***

Castiel left his car parked as close to the center of command of activity as possible and walked among the crowd of emergency personnel, police officers and a variety of both men and women whose occupation eluded him. And he didn't care enough to find out.

Maybe it was his suit and coat or maybe he exuded an air of authority or maybe, just maybe the lethal look on his face warned everyone he was a man who should be left well enough alone. Whatever the reason, no one paid him any attention. As he wandered, he heard bits and pieces of conversation: the fate of the crazy lunatic, he who had taken a boat and launched a solo trip, remained unknown.

Well, Cas knew his fate but saw no need to share the knowledge with anyone. Sam was at the church and he had arrived safely. Castiel frowned, standing motionless as he contemplated what he didn't know; _where_ Sam was.

"Where is the church?" he asked a bystander in regular clothes.

"Over the river, through those woods and up the hill." the man pointed in the direction. "We don't know though if it's still standing or if the people from town were able to reach it."

"It is." Cas confirmed. "They did."

The man stared at him but Cas walked away. He went down to the river and paced along its banks. Now on higher ground he stopped and raised his face to the sky.

"You might be able to prevent these men's attempts to rescue those stranded, but you won't stop me." he stated. "Must you play so with humans? Those people are safe and will remain so, but neither they nor these rescuers know that." his coat flapped furiously at a gust of wind. "Do your best, throw everything you've got at me, I will best you."

With that, much to the amazement of the few people who happened to take notice, he stepped off the bank, onto a field of mud and debris and began to walk. When a fireman yelled at him to stop and tried to go after him, he immediately sank up to his knees in the muddy water and was able to go no further. By the time he was back on solid ground and looked up, all of 5 seconds later, the man in the coat was no longer visible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY THANKSGIVING, Y'ALL!!

By the time Sam returned to Dean's side, his brother was lying down, tucked under the blankets and though his eyes were closed, Sam knew he wasn't asleep; his breathing was too labored and his facial muscles, mostly around his eyes and mouth were rigid. He neither moved nor protested when Sam moved the blanket and changed the poultice on his leg then opened a tube, squeezed a generous amount into the palm of his hand and used two fingers to dab its contents on the worst of the rope burns. Dean waited, girding himself to move, to roll over so Sam could get his back but Sam was content to leave that for later, though he did force Dean to raise his arm so he could tend under his arm.

"It can wait." Sam said quietly, taping new gauze pads over the rawest wounds. "You're good." the compress on his leg would hold its heat for an hour or so. "Let go, get some rest."

"Mmmm." Dean rolled his head restlessly on the pillow, lifted it from the fluff that was a sorry excuse for a pillow then let it plop back down. "Ow…..ow….ooooowwww." he moaned pitifully. "Oooeee….uff."

"What hurts?" Sam asked quietly. He'd inspected the object that had been imbedded in his brother's leg and judging by its size, he bet it had stabbed deep. Hell, maybe even to the bone, would account for the 'purple' blood. He had no way of knowing until Cas got there and since obtaining the mark, Dean didn't always feel pain like he used to – or should. Why and how was under research but it was slow going, Sam's time and attention was always diverted.

Sam rubbed his forehead, too tired to think coherently, for right there beside him on the cot, was the reason why that usually happened. Dean took a lot of time and attention and patience. Sam snorted, patting Dean on his good shoulder. He could be hurt worse than he'd let on to Fred and that thought made Sam sick.

Come on Cas, sometime today would be great dude. The thought of dealing with the mark alone scares the hell outta me and I've got enough to worry about. Yeah, you cast, created, whatever, a spell to temporarily curb, curtail, whatever its abilities, limiting its power unless Dean grants it permission to….to…..to…..whatever, but…..but….. …Dean doesn't even know you did that or that I agreed to it. I'm out of my depths here and still drowning.

"It's too soon for more pain meds and you haven't eaten anything." Sam said softly. "More tea will be good for you. You can have as much as you want. Well, not that you want any at all, but unlike aspirin…..."

"Fuck…you…..and your…..fucking tea." Dean choked around a moan. "I'm'k."

Yeah, sure you are, Sam hummed as his knees gave way, you're only saying that 'cause you don't want to upset me. He let his legs fold and gracelessly plopped down on his pile of blankets. He'd been offered a cot, but had declined. They were short and narrow and he knew from past experience he'd be more comfortable on the floor. He'd agreed to take the mattress though, if only for the padding it gave his shoulders from the unforgiving floor.

"You all set in here?" Fred asked. "I'm gonna take you up on your offer and go grab a nap. Will will be on watch should you need anything."

"Yeah, we're good." Sam yawned. "Thanks."

Fred nodded, laid a hand on Sam's shoulder and went off. Sam rubbed his eyes, grateful for the time alone. He made sure Dean was resting comfortably then went down on his side, pulling the blankets up to his ears, prepared for a good, long nap.

He got 20 minutes. Because his name was Sam Winchester and he was blessed with Dean as a brother.

Instead of being tucked up on a too-small cot in the cozy warmth of a protective, if un-preferred tent, he was curled up on the stone floor of an ill-heated church with hee-haws best. Instead of his brother grumbling about storms and tents and camp food, his brother panted and whimpered in pain. Instead of his brother resting easily and recovering at home from the worse concussion ever, he was fighting infection and loss of blood and fussing with a fever. Instead of managing a mere five hour drive home, they were stranded in a mud slide, complete with flood and still raging storm. Instead of being home, where once they got there, Sam was going to lock his brother up in the dungeon until Sam himself declared him hale and hearty, they were stranded with strangers Dean could depend on and whose helped he'd accepted. And Sam didn't like that.

Instead, instead, instead. Only, only, only. If, if, if.

Sam pulled the pillow over his head but one whimper too many had him throwing it aside in resignation. There'd be no immediate sleep for him. He reluctantly climbed from his cozy nest, kicked the blankets aside and resumed his seat in the folding metal chair. Dean quieted, lying still when Sam fussed with the blankets, removing the hot compress and checking the stitches. No, nothing had burst or torn. No bleeding. No red streaks. No oozing of puss or clear liquids. The poultice was doing its job.

He next checked the rope burns under the bandages and the torn skin left open to the air. All looked good there too. He should check Dean's back but he wasn't going to make him move to do so. Aside from the fever, which he again tested by palming Dean's forehead, there didn't seem to be any other source that could be causing Dean's discomfort.

"Sometimes when Bernie's all tired out and sound asleep, his paws move and he whines. My Mom says he's doggy-dreaming and to talk to him. The sound of my voice will calm him down without scaring him." Jamie explained patiently. "And it works."

"What?" Sam growled waspishly. "Why are you in here?" and no, I have no freaking idea what you're going on about.

"Bernie." he hefted the dog in his arms up his chest, as if Sam couldn't already see the fur-ball. "He likes it when I hold him."

"Um-hum." Sam said absently. Yeah, Dean wasn't whining because he was dreaming about milk bones and tennis balls. "Shouldn't you be someplace else?" his eyes fell on the bowl of water sitting abandoned on Fred's vacated chair, a folded cloth next to it. Damn kid had him thinking all kinds of wrong thoughts. 'He seems to like it. Don't know if it does him any good but keeps him quiet', echoed Fred's voice. Really? Truly? Huh. Out of the mouth of babes! No…..just no.

"Jamie, come away from there and leave those poor men alone!" a woman called from the hall, and without another word, Jamie and Bernard returned to the hall. Sam heard her scold him for bothering the poor, injured man as their voices faded away, absorbed into the hum-drum of the noise out in the hall.

"Really Dean?" Sam sighed. "Can't you, you know, just past out like a normal person?" then he choked on a somber laugh. Hadn't he just informed the root-of-all-their-current-problems that Dean wasn't normal? "This what you want?" he dipped and wrung and dabbed and Dean accepted the gesture with a sigh. Sam took heart Dean didn't pull away with a whine or a scowl or a curse. "Yeah, well, don't go get getting used to it." Sam muttered. "You're lucky you're still recovering from a concussion and Maggie's care or I wouldn't do this for you." he rolled his neck muscles, cracking his back by stretching. "And if you remember this, I'll deny it, just so you know."

"Mmm. Hmm. Mummmummmm." Dean murmured. "Eel's 'ood."

And so began Sam's long afternoon vigil; all common sense and rational thought blown straight to hell.

Fairly secure in the knowledge that Dean would live – for Sam was now there to make sure of it until Cas arrived and made it happen – he was left to come to terms that Dean's journey to robust health would be fraught with pain and misery and discomfort and no amount of words or assurances would make that trip any easier. The most he could do was feed Dean pain meds to ease his suffering, comfort him with a touch or a cloth of cool water and apologize for making him drink tea that he hated. Telling himself it was all Dean's fault didn't make him feel any better or make any part of their current situation any easier.

Cas, come on! Sam thought impatiently. I hate seeing him like this, so hurry the fuck up.

The hall full of people safe from a flood and out of danger from the mudslide, all due to Dean did not make Sam feel it had been a fair trade. Sure, they were all fine and in good health but his brother….wasn't. Yeah, yeah, yeah…..blah, blah, blah….sure, they were grateful and it wasn't their fault Dean had taken charge and haired off after a runaway dog and ill-behaved boy, but Sam was still pissed-off Dean had left the camp in the first place.

So, after a bathroom break, he retrieved his boots, took a trip outside to check the water level and the wall, then resumed his bed-side vigil. He napped in the chair, chin in his hands, elbows supported on his knees until Dean stirred or moaned or flailed about then he popped upright and once again, dipped, wrung and dabbed, talking softly while performing the gesture. When he literally could no longer keep his eyes open, he relinquished both his seat and the cloth once again to Fred and lay down with his blankets on the floor next to Dean's cot after giving Fred instructions to change the poultice every hour.

His last conscious thought? Memo: find pillow.

Fred checked Dean's forehead with the back of his hand, tsked and felt first one cheek, then the other. Well, the boy felt cooler and his cheeks weren't as flushed, but his lips were still cracked from dryness. So, okay, fever down and holding steady, but he still appeared in quite a bit of pain.

"Well, least you're quieter." Fred accepted a fresh bowl of water from one of the ladies. "Let's get you even better."

***000***

One moment, Mabel and Millie were alone in the kitchen, the next, a man stood in the doorway. Both let out shrieks of alarm but before the chaos that had erupted upon Sam's arrival could burst out, Castiel waved a hand and the two ladies fell silent. They did arm themselves with a sauce pan and a basket though.

"Not one step closer." Mabel warned. "Who are you?"

"Where did you come from?" Millie added. "How did you get here?"

"I am Castiel and I have come for Dean, so take me to Sam."

"Castiel? Did you say your name was Castiel? Are you Cas?" Gene exclaimed excited, popping up from nowhere. "You are! You're Cas! No way! How did you get here? How? No, really, how?"

"I walked." and indeed, he was rumpled and dirty but upon closer inspection by lantern light, he bore no cuts or scrapes or bruises. "The Winchesters are here, I…"

"How do you know that?" Gene asked bewildered. "How could you possibly know that? How do you know this is the right place? And how did you walk here? It's not possible!"

"I brought them here." Castiel answered. "Well Sam. Dean, I left at the Scout camp. I'm not happy that he left it."

"Sam came in a boat and you walked?" Gene said doubtfully, enthusiasm waning. "And rescue crews haven't come yet? I don't understand." he frowned, his buoyancy curbed. "How? No, really, I mean, _how_?" he looked around. "Does anyone understand?"

Cas was tired. A feeling he wasn't accustomed to and he was in no mood to appease the curiosity of a bunch of inferior beings. And that was new too, moods. He was moody. What was that about? And what to do about it!

"Can I get you some coffee?" Gloria asked. "Hot tea?"

"I do not require sustenance." Cas replied. "I don't….."

"Cas? Hey! Finally, about time! Took you long enough to get here." Sam was all hugs and back-slapping. Cas wavered under the onslaught and Sam steadied him. "Holy shit Cas, you look like hell."

"I am tired." Cas admitted. "I shall see Dean then get some rest." he paused. "You aren't looking so good yourself Sam."

"Yeah, well. This way." Sam led him into the church. "Wasn't easy getting here, thanks for the help by the way. He's doing okay, but he's been better. See what you think."

"He has given you no trouble then?"

"Hell Cas, he's Dean!"

"Yes, but…."

"Cas, this is Fred." Sam interrupted hastily. "He's been taking care of Dean since he, uh, hurt himself in the river." he shook his head at Fred's astonished, questioning look. "Later Fred, it's a long story and I doubt you'd believe me."

"I doubted Dean when he said you'd come for him." Fred rose to his feet and held his hand out to Cas. "And I doubted you both when you said Cas here, would come next. I don't see how…."

"I certainly understand your confusion." Cas agreed, shaking the man's hand. "See, mentally, I can…."

"Cas? Not now." Sam warned. "What do you think Cas?" he waited impatiently while Cas held a hand to Dean's forehead who swatted at it in irritation. "Cas?"

"I can't heal him completely. I am not strong enough." Cas announced solemnly. "I can either heal the muscle and ligament damage to his leg or heal the wounds to his skin on the surface that will abolish his fever and cause the infection to abate." he moved the poultice and laid his bare hand over the stitches. "The bone is untouched but the object was not carefully removed, therefore there is nerve damage."

Fred gaped; say what to whom about what?

Sam chewed on his lip: Let's see, muscle, tendons, and ligaments – oh my! Oh, and nerves. Permanent damage to any of the three – four – could result in an altered gait, severe limp, chronic pain, require numerous surgeries and months and months of physical therapy. That was all damage and injury Sam could not heal or take care of and no amount of time sitting by his brother's side with a wet cloth would make either one of them feel any better about it.

However, a mere fever, infected stitches and raw rope burns, while painful, were well within his abilities to treat.

"Given my limitations and the extent which his leg needs healing, I'll have to draw on your soul and tap your inner energy for enough strength to heal him." Cas continued. "Then I will need to rest."

"At what cost to you?" Sam sighed, decision made. "Will it be enough?"

"I will likely drain you of your available stamina." Cas ignored him. "You will be weak, tire easily." he warned. "We will have to remain here until the rescue crews arrive." he paused. "I won't be strong enough to get us out of here."

"You can't get help to him here? A chopper or boat to get him to a hospital?"

Cas shook his head. "Getting myself here was a battle I barely won." he motioned to the window that on cue, rattled under an onslaught of furious wind. "She's still having a merry good ole time and humans are no match for her in her current mood."

"Just who is 'she'?" Sam asked suddenly. "There's not really a Mother Nature is there? Just some angel with an inflated sense of self-worth, right?"

"Certainly there is Mother Nature. The seasons are…." Cas began but Sam held a hand up to silence him.

"Yeah, never mind. I don't really want to know." Sam shook his head, always amazed at how easily Cas could be diverted. "There are people here who can help take care of him." he decided. "While not the best accommodations, we are safe here and there's plenty to eat. I have our first aid kit and I'll regain my strength quickly. I only wish food and rest could do the same for you."

"Heal him internally then?" Castiel questioned, ignoring Sam's concern for his own well-being.

Sam was quiet. As much as he wanted his brother free of pain and without fear he'd forever walk with a limp, it wasn't fair to Cas to ask him to weaken himself further, perhaps permanently. Not….if there was perhaps, another way. He was back to chewing on his lip.

"Do you, ah, think, maybe, we should….I mean…..what about…..is it a good idea to, uh, play with the mark? You know, have him grant the mark permission to heal him?"

"No." Cas stated firmly. "I will be fine." he sensed Sam's mounting argument. "We still do not understand the depths of the mark Sam. What little information we've been able to obtain enables him to keep its effects under control. That's all. We shouldn't mess with that."

"Okay, yeah, sure, but…..Cas…..we've played with its abilities before…."

"Each time its powers emerge, he has a harder time regaining control. Now is not the time. Maybe if I weren't here, but I am and I'm willing to do what is necessary to heal him."

"I get his concussion wasn't life threatening and he saw a doctor and had tests, so no huge worry there, it wasn't even necessary to have you heal him. But now…"

"Let me try first Sam. Put the mark out of your mind. If he allows it to have control, there's no telling what he might do."

"I still don't like this." but Sam nodded his capitulation. "I'll find you a place to crash." Castiel, who bore no human illnesses, was grey and shaky. "Don't go being a hero either. Do as much as you can but don't go hurting yourself."

"I cannot fly, therefore I cannot crash."

"Come on." Sam let his lip curl into a grin, good ole Cas, always so literal. "One of the ladies can find you a cot with a blanket while we…uh, while you…..just, come on."

"I do not require a blanket and I wish to remain here in the church. These benches are padded, a pew will do."

"Choose one in the front." Sam advised. "This here is a motley bunch." he gave Fred a wink. "We'll be a few minutes."

"Where can we obtain privacy? Drawing from your soul will be uncomfortable." Castiel said as Sam pushed him along.

"There's a bathroom…come on."

"Are you sure it's ok to leave Dean alone with that man? Sam, I don't think….." he was yanked through the door by the collar of his coat.

Fred shook his head, resumed his seat and wrung out the cloth: youngsters these days.

***000***

If anyone thought it strange two grown men squeezed themselves into the small and only bathroom of the church hall, no one thought to comment on it.

And if more than one person saw a glow of bright white light and felt the entire hall shake, well, they'd say it was lightning and wind from the storm.

And if moments later, those two men emerged from the bathroom, pale and grey and holding onto one another as they stumbled back into the church, everyone would say they were laughing so hard they could barely walk.

For no one – no one – was about to admit that the unearthly light shining through a _closed door_ was unlike anything anyone had ever seen.

***000***

Sam stood side-by-side with Castiel and watched him commence healing. Dean didn't awaken or even stir and though there was no noticeable change in Dean's condition, Sam knew any and all internal lasting damage from both the injury and the ill-advised removal of the imbedded object were safely healed, or soon would be, without complication.

"Thanks Cas. Now come on, let's find you a pew where you'll be comfortable."

Dean wasn't aware of much. Not where he was, how much time had passed, what was going on or why he felt like he did, which was like shit. He slept, he fussed, he dreamed. He floated, he hovered, he existed on a plane between reluctant consciousness and oblivion. Whenever he made the ill-advised attempt to open his eyes and acknowledge the wakeful world, he was greeted with pain and noise and cold air, so he stopped trying.

It might not have been so bad, might all have been tolerable if…only they would leave him alone. Yes, alone. He would be quite fine if everyone went away and left him to deal with his pain and misery and discomfort – _alone._ But no, no, there was tea and water and chicken noodle soup, less the chicken, minus most noodles – eh?, and juice. Forced to take sips, he dribbled and drooled, wanting nothing to do with swallowing but his chin was wiped clean and the ever patient hands pressed the cup to his lips and a quiet voice coaxed and cajoled and pleaded just to drink a little bit more.

Someone attempted to feed him with a spoon but he was having none of that. Nuh-huh, nope, no way, not gonna happen. Spoon-feeding was for invalids and he was most definitely not an invalid.

He was hot, then cold, sweating, then shivering. There were alternating goose bumps and trickles of sweat. Yeah, did he mention the sweating and shivering? Same thing, right? His head hurt, his eyes hurt, his throat hurt, his chest hurt, his arm, his shoulder, his back – all hurt, his leg….wow…..yeah….ow, his leg. He couldn't lift his head, his arm, his foot or his eyelids….but…

Still. Not. An. Invalid.

He was cold. There was a draft on his shoulder and on one foot and while he wasn't freezing, the room temperature wasn't a comfortable warmth. Why was he cold? He didn't like being cold. Oh right, the river. Yeah, he didn't like cold water either.

He could hear voices, but they were distant and not clear. A dog barked. Nothing to fear and he didn't feel threatened…so, where was he? Why was he there? Who was he with? What had happened? He needed to find out, needed to wake up and….

"Hey, hey…what's the matter? Need you to lie still, okay? You keep moving around and you throw the blankets off then your teeth chatter."

Sam?

"It hurts, I know. Sorry about that, working on it."

Yup, definitely Sam. So, that explained the fucking tea.

"You're cold? Yeah, I know, but…..you sure you want to put a shirt on over those rope burns? I can't bandage them all and you don't like lifting your arm. If you'd stop thrashing about so much, the blankets would stay put and you wouldn't feel the draft. Can move you into the hall, near the wood stove, it's warmer but you won't have any privacy."

What? Oh right, Sam was supposed to have found his clothes. Had he? Uh…..let's see….move a hand, no, still naked.

"Can you sit up? Hey! You dumbass, not by yourself! I'm right here! Let me help you, didn't mean for you to try it on your own."

OW! Jesus Sammy, leave me with two arms! Kinda fond of both, you know? Even though the one is pissing me off right now, I'd rather keep it. And must you chatter so? Silence is golden and all that, you get me?

"Okay, just sit for a minute. Wanna wrap this fleece around you. Wait a minute, since you're up, let me get at those gauges on the back of your shoulder, won't take long."

Sitting up, even with the support of a strong arm, left him short of breath, dizzy and nauseous. By the time the ointment that stung and burned was finished being applied, he was shaking so severely that he didn't object to the one-arm hug that held him close and allowed him to relax against the warmth of a supportive chest, forehead to forehead, as the soft fleece was wrapped around his shoulders, covering his neck up to his ears. He was so busy fighting his stomach that insisted on ridding itself of the offensive tea, that he didn't even complain that he could feel someone's – Sam, for he'd never allow anyone else so close to him – breath on his cheek.

"Okay….going down….easy…..there. Here have some tea."

Yeah, he managed to open his eyes at that suggestion! Sam's blurry image wavered and flickered before sitting still and remaining fuzzy. His stomach rolled, heaved, clenched and bile burned his throat.

"Dude….need a shave." Dean croaked. "Take…that fucking tea and…."

"It's working." Sam said eagerly. "I don't have a thermometer…." oh, he had one, he had several in his handy-dandy trusty first aid kit, but yeah, not trying that while Dean still had the ability to obtain consciousness. "But you've been running a fever and the willow bark tea has….."

"I have a tongue and I can spit." Dean rasped a warning. "No."

"Maybe later then." Sam conceded. "Warm now?"

"Mmm…..hmmmm." he licked his lips, sweat dotting his brow from yet another stomach upheaval. "Ugh." he moaned.

"Here, try this." Millie laid a hand on Sam's shoulder and offered him a mug.

"Thanks, but I try to give him tea…"

"It's not tea." she corrected him gently. "It's hot chocolate. Chocolate is known to soothe upset stomachs."

"Yeah, but….he…has….I mean, just the offer of instant coffee sends him into hysterics."

Millie sniffed. "No self-respecting resident of this town would serve instant hot chocolate. This is made with milk and sugar and semi-sweet morsels with vanilla and marshmallow and a dash of nutmeg. It's warm and creamy and rich with just a hint of peppermint."

Wow, that sounded great! "Do you have enough to spare another mug?" Sam asked wistfully.

"Mabel will be right in with a mug for you." Millie nodded with a smile. "What about your friend Cas?"

"Um, not right now." Sam said quickly. "He's asleep." he took the mug from Millie and sipped, eyes closing as he savored the warm, rich taste of soothing chocolate. Damn, that was good. "Dean, hey, wanna try this?"

"No." he mumbled. "No….tea."

"It's not tea. It's….a hot toddy." Sam casually lied. It was a kind of toddy, just lacked liquor. "You lost blood Dean, you need to drink liquids."

"Do not." Dean muttered. "Don't."

"Yeah, you do. Even after voluntary blood donations, you're required to drink orange juice or soda and eat a donut or a snack. So, come on, man up."

Sam wanted him to donate blood? Dean frowned, mind scrambling to process the words it was hearing. Before their actual meaning could penetrate his fried and frazzled brain, the mug was nudging his lips and his nose was twitching. His lips parted on their own accord and his tongue darted out to taste the tantalizing offering.

"Mmmm." Dean lifted his head, his good hand reaching for the mug. Now this was worth drinking! "Gimme!"

"Stop." his hand was slapped down. "Let me hold it." said Sam as his huge paw cradled and supported Dean's head "That's it….I've got ya."

Once Dean refused more cocoa, Sam drank his own mug, surprised to find his hands were shaking. Ah, right. Cas drawing energy from his soul was finally catching up. As much as he wanted to sit in the chair next to Dean and nurse him through the next several hours, he wasn't going to be able to. He'd have to settle for lying down on his mattress with his blankets next to Dean's cot.

"Don't you be worrying none." Fred said. "He'll know you're nearby."

"He won't care." Sam sighed, sitting down on the mattress. That admission was a testament to how exhausted and drained he was. "Just another day."

"Now that there is just not true." Fred admonished him. "He's much calmer now that you're here. You know what they say, a person is always happier at home and better with those they know. Age of a man doesn't change that. Hurt and sick, what's familiar is comforting."

"That ain't me." Sam laid down, close to the cot but far enough away should Dean open his eyes, he'd see Sam on the floor. "His luck is shit and he ain't got much."

"I'm thinking he sees you as home and he's safe and that's all he needs." Fred said. "He feels better because you're near. No one wants to be alone and everyone wants to be taken care of. See, he…." Fred was rewarded with a snore. Sam had fallen asleep that quickly. "I'd say he's pretty damn lucky." Fred finished with a chuckle. "Lucky he has a brother who will forge a mud slide and brave a storm so fierce rescue crews won't attempt a rescue, to row a boat across a raging river to reach his side just to make sure he's alright and be there with him. Not everyone has that, and he has both you and your friend Cas. I'd say that's a lot."

***000***

Sleep didn't do anything to help Sam feel better. He awoke with a headache, his muscles aching and just rolling over was an effort that left him breathless. Yeah, okay, so Cas hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said he'd drain Sam of his stamina.

Sam sat up with a yawn. The chairs near Dean's cot were empty and Dean slept quietly. Huh, how long had Sam been asleep? Couple of hours? Not long enough! He gathered his strength and pushed to his feet, wavering slightly and using Dean's cot to steady his balance. Dean still didn't stir so Sam checked on Cas, who slept like the dead, then went in search of something to eat.

The knowledge Dean would be all right was forgotten; Dean didn't understand the passage of time and Sam was consumed with the guilt there was no way for him to assure his brother his misery and suffering would soon end.  Nor did Sam have any real way of knowing he'd made the correct decision to have Cas heal Dean internally, rather than abolish the wound and source of infection.  

The rest of the day passed, evening became night. Sam ate and napped. Stressed and worried. Fretted and frowned. Pulled his hair out and chewed his lip bloody. Wrung his hands and cursed his life. Hoped and prayed. Prayed and bargained and made promises. Forced his brother to drink tea and accept being spoon-fed beef broth and tomato soup. Dean tossed and turned but didn't awaken fully. Cas continued to play dead.

Sam was never alone. Fred was always at hand. The ladies popped in and out with coffee and sandwiches. Will reported the water had completely circled the wall but hadn't seeped inside and the wall was holding steady. Gene reported the wind had died down, and the rain had let up and come dawn, they should see rescue crews. Fred calmly, steadily tended both Dean and Sam and chased the well-meaning but over-eager woman way when they tried to linger.

Cas still hadn't moved and Sam, finally feeling better, had taken a walk outside. Maybe he'd been gone longer than he thought, hell, he must have been, for when he returned to the church, he found Dean sitting up with both feet on the floor, wearing a black t-shirt and asking Fred for his pants.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam demanded. "Forget it Dean, you aren't getting up or going anywhere."

"What the fuck's your problem?" Dean asked crossly. "Got a bug up your ass or something?"

"My problem? My problem is you…..BECAUSE I DON'T DARE LET YOU OUT OF MY SIGHT!" Sam exploded, relief and anger warring within and erupting in a fury of hair flinging, hand waving and foot stomping. "I can't BELIEVE you!"

"WHAT? Good grief." Dean blew him off, hunching a shoulder to wipe at his face. "Over react much? God, you're like, hysterical. Calm down."

"Calm down? _Calm_ down? You want me to CALM DOWN? How am I supposed to do that when I send you on a simple errand and you end up in a bar with your fucking BRAINS BASHED IN? You were _arrested_ Dean!" oh, he was wild and crazy now! "I left you in the middle of god-damn no-where where I told you to stay and what did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO DEAN? What happened again? Oh right, you nearly drowned, suffocated, bled out, succumbed to infection and required Cas to come and heal you best as he could and you know what? HE AIN'T DOING SO GOOD! He sure as HELL didn't need to drain what strength he has making sure you live long enough to get to a hospital! So DON'T, don't you dare wave this off like it was no big deal! IT WAS! It was a big deal Dean, a very big deal! DO YOU GET THAT? You need to get that!"

Dean just stared.

"He used mental energy to get us to safety, yes it was a camp of tents but we were safe there. But oh no, you just couldn't stay put. He used more to get me here, physical strength to get himself here and pulled on my soul to charge up enough to heal internal damage to your leg! So, YES, yes this is your fault – all your fault – and god dammit Dean…you could have died! Or been maimed for life! You DUMB ass!"

"You done?" Dean growled sarcastically.

"WHY?"

"Cause I'm gonna hurl."

Sam fumed; what was going to win, relief or anger? Neither. Victory to either was denied because it was Fred to the rescue! He gently held Dean's head over a wastecan he'd wedged between Dean's knees, blanket draped across his lap, raising an eyebrow at Sam's hesitation.

"All…..that….." cough, spit, hack. "…..fucking…..tea." Dean groaned pitifully. Remaining hunched over, he moaned his misery. "You know…I…..hate it."

"Yeah, well, that tea brought down your fever and kept you quiet." Sam sniped irritably, standing firm and refusing to be swayed. "Gave me a chance to get some sleep."

"Always…all about you." Dean wiped the back of his hand across this mouth. "Water?"

"How you feeling?" Sam asked grudgingly, still quite miffed. "Cas's done all he can." he poured water from a clear plastic pitcher into a plastic cup. "Where were you going?" he held it out and waited while Dean eyed it warily before reaching to take it.

"Bathroom. Need pants." he swallowed with a wince. He wanted to swish and spit but Fred and the wastecan were gone. "And I feel like shit." well, he felt better, but his body still ached and his leg still hurt and he felt like he'd swam an Olympic race in mud and swallowed a river. Oh, and his stomach was still at odds with the rest of his body and his shoulder and arm still stung and burned but that bone-deep, body thrumming pain was gone. Ah, let's see, what else? His head, his throat, his chest…his pride, he winced at the arrival of one of the twins.

"Here you go!" Mabel sang, waltzing in, waving Dean's boxer-briefs in the air like a flag. "All clean and dry. Well, hand-washed of course, but clean nonetheless." she didn't hold them out or hand them over. No, she held onto them like she was guarding the game trophy from the opposing team's mascot.

"My pants?" Dean waited expectedly but she didn't move. Sam reached for the material made of cotton but she held tight and they engaged in a tug-of-war. She finally relinquished her hold on the prize when Sam tugged so hard she stumbled forward.

She scowled, letting go with a pout. She hadn't really expected Dean to parade through the hall in just a t-shirt, but she would have enjoyed the sight of just her fleece wrapped around his waist.

"I'm going to help you and you're going to let me." Sam said ominously, brow set. He wadded the cloth in one hand and held it out of reach. "You used a coffee can before, can't you…oh."

Dean wavered, weighing his chances of escaping Sam. Yeah, not good. So, he sighed and nodded, letting his head drop and his chin dip to his chest. Sam shooed Mabel back into the hall and squatted down to inspect the stitches.

"Still infected." Sam announced. "But looking better." he poked and pressed. Dean winced and jerked. "Oozing some puss, but no blood and no red streaks going up your leg. Still, I'm going to put you back to bed with more hot poultices."

"Still hurts." Dean shot back. Put him to bed? Really? "Just….not like….before." his sat up straight. Well, he tried, his left shoulder didn't cooperate. "OW!" he reached with his right hand to hold left shoulder but his hand was slapped away.

"Don't touch." Sam scolded. "Put your foot….no, your foot….your other foot…..good god, it's not that hard. You've got two feet Dean, and briefs have two holes. One foot goes in each….no…..hey, I said….."

By the time Sam got Dean's feet through the legs of the briefs, he was exhausted. Still weak and woozy from being drained of his strength by Cas, his ass hit the floor with a thud when Dean shoved at his shoulder. Briefs at his ankles, Dean was no longer tolerant of accepting Sam's help.

"You're not walking anywhere alone." Sam clambered to his feet. "You even try and I'll toss you over my shoulder."

"You sure as hell ain't carrying me." Dean retorted. Using one of the blankets to wipe his face, he managed to stand up but found he couldn't bear any weight on his bum leg. He blushed in mortification as he reluctantly accepted the fact he would have to accept his brother's help after all. "Fine!" he growled. "But you're staying outside."

Sam nodded and Dean grudgingly looped his good arm around Sam's neck. Sam pulled him close and Dean let him. Closer than necessary but it felt good to have his brother by his side and if the arm he looped around Dean's waist hugged him tighter than needed, well, the only person who knew that wasn't complaining.

"Cas is here?" Dean asked as he limped, hopped and hobbled alongside Sam.

"Yeah, he…uh…healed your leg best he could but it took a lot outta him. You'll have some pain until we can get you to a hospital but there'll be no lasting permanent damage internally."

"Hospital?" Dean repeated startled. "I ain't going to no hospital!"

"Yeah, you are." Sam corrected. "Rescue crews will be here soon."

"Then, by boat." Dean ordered. "Don't let them fly me outta here."

"We'll see."

**000***

Paper map on the dash, GPS on his cellphone, Dean dozing in the passenger seat, Sam revved the engine, backed up, turned around and pulled out of the hospital parking lot onto the road that would _finally_ lead them to the highway that would take them home.

Having been turned around and delayed and detoured during the storm, and Dean transported by ambulance to the nearest hospital with Sam following in the Impala, they were a mere two hour or so drive from the bunker and nothing and no one was going to stop them this time. Cas had remained at the church, for whatever reason with promises to catch up with them at the bunker in a week so and while Sam still worried about the angel, he was glad it was just the two of them going home.

"We gonna stop?" Dean asked sleepily. "I'm hungry."

"No." Sam said shortly. He wanted to go home. Straight home, but….Dean when announced he was hungry, it was wise to feed him. And Dean wanted ice cream. And as much as Sam wanted to deny him, he couldn't do it. So rather than admit the reason they were stopping was because Sam couldn't say no to his brother, he convinced himself the Impala needed gas.

While he pumped gas, Dean fell from the car and despite Sam's order to get back in and stay put, he wandered into the roadside general store. Sam sighed but let him go. How much trouble could he get into in one-room mini-mart?

As soon as Sam stepped through the door of the store, he knew letting Dean - despite his former vow never to do so again - out of his sight hadn't been a wise move. Dean wandered the aisles, picking up and setting down everything his fingers touched as he aimlessly meandered. A beefy, burly fellow followed him about, not even trying not to be obvious, picking everything up Dean had put down and putting it back where it belonged. The cashier stood watching the surveillance camera, phone in her hand, ready to call.....the police, perhaps?

Sam hastily collected his brother, smacked his hands until he dropped the package of cookies and steered him over to the freezer that contained ice cream, then went to make two cups of coffee.

"You know," Sam began hotly, embarrassed and angry. "You really shouldn't judge people by what they wear or how they look. Yeah, okay, maybe our clothes are wrinkled and my hair hasn't been washed but our appearance doesn't give you the right to follow us throughout the store like we're about to shoplift everything I can shove down my pants!"

Dean, rumpled and disheveled, twitching and shying away from people and overhead lights, strode by. Partially unwrapped candy bar between his teeth, carton of ice cream tucked under his bad arm, and a bottle of sports drink dangling from his other hand, he marched right through the front door.

The clerk smirked, set the phone aside and with her hands on her hips, popped a bubble with a quirked eyebrow. "So, will you be paying cash?" she asked sweetly.

"I….uh…he…." Sam stuttered, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole; so much for righteous indignation being on his side. Oh, he was so going to beat the living hell out of his brother. He hastily paid for the items Dean had absconded with, didn't bother to wait for his change and strode out to the car in a fit of fury.

"I let you out of my sight for five minutes! Five minutes Dean! How can you find trouble in a gas station? Only you, just you." he exploded upon opening the car door.  "What the hell's the matter with you?" he got in and slammed the door. "SERIOUSLY?"

"What? There wasn't any trouble!"

"That girl was calling the police….or worse, Big Bubba's brothers."

"Who?"

"The one-ton buffalo who was ready to tackle you to the floor and bang your head against it."

"Pfft." Dean blew him off, opening the carton of ice cream. "Have you always been prone to hysterics and I just never noticed or is this something new?" he offered Sam a spare spoon. "Besides, you were packing."

Sam clenched his jaw, bared his teeth and pulled out. They'd been back on the road for about thirty minutes when Sam passed the road sign thanking them for their visit to the state of Nebraska with the hope they'd enjoyed their stay and would return soon.

Oh. Hell. No….Not. Ever.

"Hey Dean?" Sam's fingers tightened and his hands fisted on the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve.

"Yeah?" his brother was nestled in a blanket against the window and his head lolled with the motion of the car.

"Just so you know, we ain't never traveling through Nebraska again, 'k?"

"Ain't so bad."

"The family from hell at the B&B and the most incompetent group of local yokels beg to differ...…"

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Dean murmured sleepily. "But Sam….this time you were driving." he yawned and snuggled his cheek against the pillow he'd made. "Just so you know."

Yeah, I was, and that's how it's gonna be for a while…..you and me dude…..you and me.

***END***


End file.
